STALINGRAD
by Alfenide
Summary: [SYOC CLOSED] The S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations was a breeding ground for HYDRA during the Uprising. Unfortunately, Class 1942 bought the brunt of it.
1. Introduction & Character Rota

**.**

 **[SOYC]**  
The S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations was a breeding ground for HYDRA insurgents during the Uprising. Class 1942 bought the brunt of it.

* * *

Before the HYDRA Uprising, it was established practice for S.H.I.E.L.D. to train its new recruits within the walls of three specialized institutions: The Academy of Communications, the Academy of Operations and the Academy of Science and Technology.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Operations trains Specialists and Field Agents. It's program is aggressive, it's methods are often questionable, but when it comes to churning out qualified agents yearly, it settles for nothing less than exceptional.

Class 1942, Codename STALINGRAD, was the last year before S.H.I.E.L.D. fell during the Uprising.

* * *

So, if you haven't already managed to guess; this a Submit-Yer-Character fic. It's a little Christmas Holiday task for me, personally, to keep me busy and keep my literacy skills honed, but it also gives me the chance to get over the winter finale of AoS.

This will not, likely, go into detail about Coulson's team per se; it'll be in the same timeline (Post-Seeds, and then gradually works along until the HYDRA uprising) but since Coulson isn't known to be alive, and that many of his ops would be considered top secret by principle, this is more of a branching out fic than anything. A dip into the S.H.I.E.L.D. world before it was ceremoniously crumbled into many little Helliciarrier pieces. Of course, there will be references to the Avengers and other Marvel films, but mostly it will about how the world of S.H.I.E.L.D. worked for Cadets, such as training and espionage.

Once HYDRA invade, well, we might see some familiar faces.

As for now, however, the unfamiliar faces:

Class 1942 will consist of fifteen cadets, aged between 18-20 (I will accept older OCs, within reason; some relevant information in their backstories will help, but NO younger than that. I know people like young OCs, and granted, I do too, but considering S.H.I.E.L.D's standard and practices, they wouldn't put minors on a Special Forces-equivariant training regime. Perhaps in Sci and Tech, but, well... _thisisntsciandtechsoooooooo_...) including my own OC, which is roughly 5 Cadets per Fire-Team. That means fourteen spaces for all you lot.

I may add more, but for now, it is a first-come-first-served basis. A whole Cadet year is going to be larger, realistically, but to keep things tidy the cap is at fourteen for the time being.

Also, **Powers**. I forgot to address this. Your OCs **MAY** have powers, but it would be fitting, very fitting, if they were either minor to some degree or hidden, such as an Inhuman who hasn't yet undergone Terrigenesis, for example. My character has a power, but considering the circumstances, he (and everyone else) is unlikely to even know it exists. But big powers that will make them stand out may have to be a no-go unless they can be properly concealed. This is more realism and balance purposes than anything.

Heck. Little Johnny can shoot flames from his fists? Little Johnny is unlikely to be a Cadet for much longer, methinks.

The Bio will be below:

 **But I Must Warn You Now, Please, With Obnoxious Pronunciation, Capitals, And Attention Grabbing Bold Lettering.**

 **PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE, DO NOT PUT YOUR BIOs IN _REVIEWS_.  PM ME. DON'T PUT IT IN REVIEWS. IT MAKES IT HARD TO SEE FEEDBACK IF THE FIC's REVIEW BOARD IS FILLED WITH OC BIOGRAPHIES. PM ME. I PROMISE I DON'T BITE.**

 **really!**

Now, that we've got all of the boring stuff out of the way.

I'll put the Bio on my... Bio? (Welp, how fitting.) And you can take a look at the completed version down below for my own OC, Decker. Once I have them all, I'll compress them together and make a little extra-chapter-thing that shows the relevant date in the form of what I intend to be a personnel file, so y'all can snoop around each other's characters and get a feel for everyone.

Very much looking forward to seeing what people come up with. I highly enjoy working with new characters, and I do hope some people will find enjoyment in how I portray them.

\- _Alfenide, Over and Out._

 ** _OH._**

 **AND MANY THANKS TO THE CURRENTLY INDISPOSED NORSMEUNGANDR FOR THE CHARACTER BIO HELP. YOU'RE A STAR, NORSE. A REAL STAR.**

[SOYC]

* * *

 **[STALINGRAD]  
** [SOYC]

 **WOW. Like, so many people! I literally wake up one morning to find that my inbox has imploded, awsome!**

 **Current Rota:**

 **FIRETEAM ATHOS**  
 **Cadet 1# :** Reginald "Reg" Decker [ALFENIDE: 12/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 2# :** Daniel Bonaventura [NORSEMUNGANDR: 12/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 3# :** Sadie Castillo [MAYDAYSENTRY: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 4# :** Rose Matthews [LADYMORGANAPENDRAGON: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 5# :** Finley Powell [AVIATOR CAPI: 14/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 6# :** Ceasar Shevchenko [CIVILLIAN: 14/12/2015]

 **FIRETEAM POTHOS**  
 **Cadet 7# :** Cecily Astrof [CANIMA: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 8# :** Ata Qadir Koyi [CIVILLIAN: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 9# :** Ella Kahala [WINCHESTER: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet** **10# :** William "Will" Yoshita [LIQUIDATION: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 11# :** Josephine "Josie" Kimble [BELLA ROSA: 14/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 12# :** Franklin "Frank" Faulkner [NORSEMUNGANDR: 14/12/2015]

 **FIRETEAM ARAMIS**  
 **Cadet 13# :** Lena Tarasov [DCDREAMER55: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 14# :** Grace "Gracie" Brook [KASSIDY10: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 15#** **:** Nakano Nanami [MYSTERYAGAIN: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 16# :** Marlowe "Marley" Capital [DCDREAMER55: 13/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 17# : J** ames "Jamie" Blake [HALEY BETH: 14/12/2015]  
 **Cadet 18# :** Park Sun-Li [THEDAFFODILQUEEN: 14/12/2015]

* * *

[SOYC]


	2. Day One, 1654 HRS

**EDIT:** Sorry for the reupload, but for some reason, doc manager has started repeating my sentences in the above paragraphs. No idea why. It's infuriating. And I did not realise until I posted. And then it takes forever for the repostings to actually take affect.

* * *

 **DAY 1  
** **1654HRS**

In July's brutal heat, those mad enough to brave the outside during the day managed to accomplish a crisp dryness when exposed to the sun. Only around the hairline could you find the slightest evidence of any sweating at all. So, with that in mind, Nanami soon began to notice when the weather was starting to cool―not like such was any comfort, of course; the thermometer strapped to the front of the bus had it at least 34°C―when the sweat started to run down her face, rather than just evaporating straight into the air. She imagined, in her dazed mind made weary from intense travel, that by the time she got to base, her clothes would need wringing out.

She certainly felt damp enough under the long sleeved t-shirt to warrant that image.

The experience of traveling from San Diego to Washington for processing was so far a near-novelty. Nanami was one of forty cadets aboard the low-floor transit bus currently on their way to an undisclosed location for Operations Training. All of them had been recruited by the extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency, S.H.I.E.L.D., after qualifying and taking a number of different tests, and now, after a week of waiting for their results, those who passed are no longer young civilian adults, but probational S.H.I.E.L.D. cadets. Nanami herself had become accustomed to the swift, decisive professionalism. It had taken them mere days to provide her with the instructions and directions to the processing station in DC. Her initial testing had been speedy and direct. Nanami had expected more of the same when she landed to start induction.

Only when she finally arrived after a five-hour flight, she was greeted with a system in near breakdown. It had taken nearly four hours to get any and all cadets registered at the Academy of Operations written down and in a specific order. Nanami had been informed by her induction letter that everyone had to be ready for send-off at half eight in the morning. It was very nearly noon when they finally managed to do just that, in the blistering heat, a group of forty sweaty, over-agitated young adults hurtling down highways inside a bus with worn cushions, frayed seatbelts and a carpet underfooting that had lost any semblance of pattern. It was in no way comfortable. It was in no way pleasant. This bus was clearly designed for carrying soldiers, or the equivalent; every expense had been spared. There was no entertainment system. The seats did not recline. One learned early on not to put their hands, or anything else, into the seatback pockets because years of accumulated food scraps had sprouted mold, and the ashtrays were still full, even though smoking on S.H.I.E.L.D. transport had been banned for years.

Nanami may have been okay if they had access to the internet, or perhaps a book, but all outside communications had been cut off with a firm warning from their attendants that from now until they either left on their own accord or completed induction, they were at the pleasure of S.H.I.E.L.D., and that pleasure did not extend to allowing connection with the world rolling by behind the windows.

Of course, they couldn't see the landscape outside anymore. After they got out of Washington, the windows had blacked out. They had no idea where it was they were going.

Not that any of the forty Cadets on board cared. There was screaming, shouting and occasional choruses of _are we nearly there yet?_

They were. So far, they had been on the bus for three hours. According to the attendants, they had forty minutes left.

Even if they had been allowed to take their own things, Nanami wouldn't have had the peace and quiet to enjoy a book at length, anyway. She had some stuff, but it was only her music player, a photograph of her parents and a small necklace with a pendant made to resemble an Ema―her regulation _Three Personal Affects_ that they were allowed to take with them. Anything else, their attendants had explained, could be sent to them through the mail once they passed through induction and settled down.

Someone kicks the back of her chair roughly, and Nanami presses her mouth into a grim line.

 _So much for settled down_.

Of the forty cadets on the bus, Nanami only recognized three or four of them. A full year had close to ninety cadets, which meant that two buses would be en route, and back at processing, there had also been students for the Academy of Communications and SciTech as well. Through the madness of processing Nanami had only been able to identify a few by face, and now, most of them weren't here. Either on this bus en route to Operations or on the way to Operations at all. Two of whom she recognized, a pair of boys, stayed in their seats at the back of the bus and she stayed in hers, staring forwards blankly up against the windows, and trying desperately to not think about the heat.

Thoughts of her mother and Ai swirled in her mind. Nanami knows that this is a great opportunity, that she should be very proud to have been accepted by S.H.I.E.L.D., and her temperament reflects her self-confidence; she must make them, in turn, proud. Proud of her, and what she can achieve. She could hear her father's voice reminding her. Sit up straight and do as you are told. Nanami usually heard those words from him on important occasions: her first day of school, important rituals, Kendo tournaments. Do as you are told.

So she does. Nanami does so even as the rest of the cadets start acting up around her.

Someone throws a water bottle overhead, and it crashes against the isle, exploding widely and throwing lukewarm liquid all over the legs of those sat in the middle. One of the attendants starts shouting over the shouting soaked cadets, but nobody comes forward, and the attendant is met with dozens of identical smiles of innocence from the back end. The attendant moves on quickly, nevertheless, as if there is no point in wasting further time on the exchange.

There isn't, really. Someone at the front of the bus starts a loud, furious exchange with someone on the other side of the gangway and all is pretty much forgotten.

Nanami leans back against her chair and breathes out hard through her nose.

 _Sit up straight_. Her father's voice tells her. _Make us proud_.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

In contrast, sat at the very back of the bus, Daniel Bonaventura was doing everything in his power to avoid thinking about his parents.

 _Unbelievable_. Daniel grumbled mentally. _Absolutely ridiculous_.

He's given up on a shot at Summer Olympics for _this?_

Everything had been going to plan before he was recruited. Daniel was going to be taking part in the most prestigious athletics contest on Earth. He was one of the fastest U21's in the State. He had potential. He had drive. He had talent, and he'd been forced to the other side of the country to play soldier.

Daniel has no way of knowing if anyone else on this wheeled tin shack is feeling as bitter as he is, but he can't help but let it show. The kid next to him, some twit with swept hair, had initially started making comments about his mood. That was, until, everyone was informed that if you start making enemies this early on, it may come back to haunt you later.

"My dear darling little children," one of the attendees had sighed after two lads got into a fight. The one that had come out on top had a busted nose. The other one, well, Daniel is pretty sure that if they don't kick him out for having a broken arm before training, he's some serious lucky indeed. "None of you are any more important than each other. Keep in mind, that you all took the same tests, and you all got the same results, and some of you, some of you scored higher."

The kid who had been sat next to him had made a sarcastic comment. Daniel had wanted to hit him, then. To bring attention to him was to bring attention to Daniel. And for someone who did not even want to be here, that was just...

He'd rather fly under the radar.

Under the radar is safe, or as safe as anything will ever be again.

But the kid hadn't shut up, and the torture lingered on.

"I mean, you said that everybody scored as high as everybody else, and some scored higher, and that's not true."

The attendant waited some more.

"That's all I had to say."

"Feel better?" said the man.

The kid sullenly kept his silence.

Without disturbing his perfect smile, the man's tone changed, and instead of bright sarcasm, there was now a sharp whiff of menace. "I asked you a question, cadet."

"No, sir, I don't feel better."

"What's your name?" asked the man.

"Sir, this Cadet's name is Will Yoshita, sir."

"Well, Cadet. First of all, I have all the authority here, and you have none, so I have the power to make your life miserable, and you have no power to protect yourself. So how much intelligence does it take just to keep your mouth shut and avoid calling attention to yourself?"

"None, sir."

"Secondly," said the man, "my statement only seems to be self-contradictory because you did not think of the situation. In fact, it is not necessarily true that one person has the highest scores of everyone on this bus. That's because there were many tests, physical, mental, social, and psychological, and many ways to define 'highest' as well, since there are many ways to be physically or socially or psychologically fit. Are you beginning to grasp the shallowness of your thinking that led you to your conclusion?"

Yoshita nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. At least someone has the capacity to learn. But back to my initial point. I was telling you that even though some cadet here may seem like a prime target for your need to assert supremacy, you must control yourself, and refrain from poking or pinching, jabbing or hitting, or even making snidely provocative remarks just because you think somebody is an easy target. And the reason why you should refrain from doing this is because you don't know who in this group is going to end up being your SO in the future, the Level 7 when you're a mere Level 6. And if you think for one moment that they will forget how you treated them now, today, then you really are a fool. I'd suggest you work on earning their respect, not trying to put them down so you can show off like some schoolyard punk."

Daniel had been just as surprised as all the other cadets. Not about the fighting. He knew, long ago, that it amounted to nothing. He was surprised about the tests. There had only been one test paper, and they had all reported to a local clinic to run on a treadmill for a few hours, which seemed more like a medical evaluation than an actual examination. Apparently they all needed time to think about this at length, however, because that had been the end of Will Yoshita's grilling. The attendant had gone back to the very front of the bus to leave them to their thoughts. Yoshita seemed unbothered, but Daniel is also a competitive ass himself; getting taken down a notch in front of everyone must hurt some way.

One kid got floored when trying to board the bus and ended up becoming the laughing stock for a good minute and a half.

Daniel glances around. Is this what he's really going to be experiencing? One-upmanship and politics? Because he'd rather kill himself now.

Sighing, he sets his head back with the intention of shutting his eyes.

Only for the bus to stop abruptly, and with the momentum, Daniel jerks forward and smacks the front of his forehead against the metal edging along the seat in front of him. Will Yoshita snorts, but Daniel pays him little mind, because the girl in front of him spins around abruptly to see what had happened.

"Are you okay?" She asks sharply, abruptly, and Daniel looks up to see a girl with long dark hair and a pair of blue eyes that seem far, far too large for her face. Like a lot of the people here, she's young looking, but there is an air about her that makes her seem far older. Mature, almost.

"I'm fine," He replies. "Thank you."

"Are we here?" The girl next to her asks. "I've been cooped up here for far too long. I want my lighter."

The boy next to him smirks. "So you've said. Like, fifteen times."

"Seventeen, actually." Daniel grumbles. It earns a laugh from the girl who likes the lighter and a searching look from the other one.

She looks at Will imploringly, too. "Did you have to piss off the attendant?" She asks.

The boy raises his eyebrows. "Are you kidding me? He's so far up his own arse he can see his tonsils."

Daniel tuned out their conversation, eyes drifting towards the bus doors. They flap open impatiently. She was right. They are here.

 _So much for the Summer Olympics._

 **[STALINGRAD]**

The S.H.I.E.L.D. Training Facility 003#, codenamed "The Pitch", had been a checkbox on his to-do list for as long as he can remember.

Reg Decker had been waiting for this. For eighteen years, very nearly. He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the massive window that looked down on the depot, situated just beyond the command center proper. Despite the thickness of the glass, Reg could hear the rumble of the buses as they pulled up. Two in unison, painted almost exactly like school ones, only filled with enough S.H.I.E.L.D. tech to warrant the protection of an armored fighting transport van. He wondered if the candidates from America, Mexico, and Canada could tell themselves apart from one another. He supposed that they could, somehow or another, but he certainly could not. Not from way up here.

Somewhere in the small crowd that issued forth from the buses was one of his squadmates, he felt certain. Of course, he was certain. He had to be. All five of them, in fact. But something in the group to emerge from the doors last felt different. _Is it you?_ He wondered, watching as a tanned girl with white-blonde hair hopped onto the tarmac. _You?_ A dark-skinned young man who looked older than the regulation eighteen. _You?_ Reg's mind soared as he caught sight of them all. _This was it._ He thought. _They're here. I'm here. We're going to start this in earnest._

"Reginald!" Boomed a massive voice from behind Reg, causing his heart to feel as though someone had suddenly squeezed it in their fist and then released it just as quickly. He turned on his heel with military precision, so fast that the soft brown curls of his hair slapped ticklishly against his forehead, and saw a bear of a man making his way toward him, smile wide, arms opened even wider. That man was one of the most powerful politicians in America, a hero of the Iraq War, among one of the most dedicated advocates of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the entire world. And he was Reg's father. Councilman Reginald Decker, Sr., of the World Security Council. The elder Decker wore a tight fitting suit, as he almost always did, the tie selected personally by Reg's mother, whose small steps were bringing her down the hallway more slowly than her husband's, and she gradually fell more and more behind his father's strides grew faster.

When he reached his son, Councilman Decker stopped just short of hugging him, which Reg appreciated but still pined for, electing instead to clap him on both shoulders with a heavy blow, one that might have sent him stumbling as a smaller boy. "My boy," the Councilman noted, after a few seconds. "Here we are."

 _Here we are indeed_ , he thought, but his mind told him to say: "Yes, sir."

There was no way on this Earth that Reg, even if he had wanted to do anything otherwise in earnest, would not have been undertaking this opportunity. That had been made apparent from before he could properly string a sentence together. The second his Father realized that he had a son, Reg had been slated for S.H.I.E.L.D. almost as quickly as his elder sister Johanna had, and Johanna was currently serving under John Garrett himself. A great opportunity. Almost as great as Reg's himself.

But he also knows that in setting himself aside, being here early when everyone else had gone through regular processing, will have it's consequences. He knows that he'll be marked for this. For being different. For having a surname that resembles one of S.H.I.E.L.D's top dogs.

Which is precisely why when his father learns that Anthony Dunkirk was the one overseeing them through the two days of induction, he feels some semblance of hope. Dread, too, because Kirkland will be out to kill him and make him fail, no doubt, but hope too.

Hope, that even with all his power, Father can't do anything against a man like Dunkirk when Reg moves through those doors. That's good. It is. It means that Reg can do something on his merit and his merit alone.

"It's routine work." His father grumbles. He still yet has to remove his hands. "Clearly he's not going out on much of a limb with you."

His mother gives Reg a pitying look, then turns her attention to her husband. "I think it means Reggie's passed Director Fury's initial test." She holds her husband's gaze. "He knows what he's got in the boy."

Father gives her a sidelong glance.

Reg, uncomfortable with the tension just as he's about to send-off, smiles meekly. "I'm not sure it's that spectacular, Mother."

"Agreed." His father growls. "Reginald's still a long way from getting the man's trust."

His mother sighs, looks at Reg, and mouths silently.

 _He knows you're special._

"He" doesn't mean Director Fury. Reg knows this. Even if, sometimes, it's hard to keep in mind.

Although he's about to undertake the most important decision of his life, Reg can't help it. He looks down at his feet and grins.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"There are yellow footprints on the ground outside. Each of you will step onto a pair of those footprints. You will not move from these footprints, you will not talk while you stand on those footprints, nor will you fidget while you stand on those footprints." The blonde haired attendee tells them. "Execute," he adds with a tone of finality, and then steps out without looking back. Everyone gets out of their seats and files out onto the lot outside. It looked almost like the bus station they had left previously, only beyond, far beyond, one could see the lines of trees rather than apartment blocks.

Ella Kahala watches him impassively as the attendee walks across the rows and scans the sloppily formed line, straightening out the front of his uniform like the entitled twit he was.

She's used to this. To the military pomp and the grandeur. It makes her want to puke.

Not just her, it seems. Some of the recruits are looking a little sick themselves. Maybe because of the reality that has dawned on them. Or maybe because they are back in the sun and the warm, sticky air has finally hit them.

The attendee stands with his feet apart, at parade rest.

"My name is Agent Dunkirk. I am not your SO. I'm your Class Mommy."

The cadets begin to laugh, but the smiles drop off their faces when they see their 'mommy' has a blonde shaved hair and more muscles than Ella knew a human being could carry. Then it hits them.

"I did not give you permission to speak. Or to cackle like little grannies." Kirkland pauses impeccably with a lofty chin raise. "It is my job to oversee you for the next two days. From there, you will be passed onto your new SOs. There will be one SO for one Squad. Tell me, cadets. What is a squad?"

Silence. The question is not hard. Ella feels her jaw go slack.

Agent Dunkirk smiles a feral little smile. "How about this. There is a Cadet here, in this line, who goes by the name of Reginald Decker. Would this Cadet please raise his hand?"

Sure enough, a hand is raised.

Ella glances across the line to see that the boy who had risen his hand was not someone she had seen on the bus. Maybe he had come on the other one.

"Permission to speak, Cadet."

"Thank you, sir." The boy, who has an accent distinct of New York, replies.

"Can you answer my question, Cadet?"

"Yes, sir." The boy stresses. "Three fire-teams of Cadets, sir."

"And how many Cadets is that, Cadet?"

"Eighteen, sir."

"How heartening it is, to know that the children know basic arithmetic." Kirkland is still grinning. It's not in humor. "I suppose it would be gratifying to know, Cadet, how you appear to know such information. Care to tell us, Cadet?"

The boy does not speak up.

"Oh, not so insistent now, are we, Cadet Decker?"

"No, sir."

"You see here, cadets. Decker here, you may know the name if you are in any way associated with S.H.I.E.L.D., is the dear baby boy of Councilman Decker. A highly coveted member of the World Security Council. Aren't we fortunate, cadets? To have a young man of such high esteem among our ranks? A Cadet that will almost certainly pass while others fail, simply because he happens to be directly related a man who oversees the organization we strive so hard to work for?"

Ella wants to scream. She has no loyalty to the kid getting grilled, heck, she didn't even know him, but she's been in his position before. She knows it's not fair. She's been in enough schools like this to know that the kid was being set up. What interested her, however, was that the kid had refused to try and hide from the obvious answer. Even though the question was designed to make the others detest him for answering it.

She could feel the hostility of the other cadets. There was nothing he could do about that right now, and she wasn't sure that it was a disadvantage, anyway. What mattered was the much more puzzling question: Why was Kirkland setting them up? There was one kid on the bus that got a grilling as well.

If the point was to get the cadets competing with each other, they could have passed around a list with everyone's scores on all the tests, so they all could see where they stood.

As if to answer her question, Kirkland begins to speak up again. "As you can see, cadets. You are all among the five percent of applicants accepted into S.H.I.E.L.D's Acadamy program. You may think that this makes you special in some way. It does not."

"This program is brutal, boys and girls. It has the highest percentage of drop outs. The largest number of injuries. We will put a lot of effort in making you into credible agents, and we expect all of that effort to be returned in kind. For some of you, it will be easier than others. For most of you, it will be harder. This program is not custom-fit to your needs as a whole. It favors those it likes. Some of you will be at an advantage. Some of you will have parents in high places. Some of you will have trained. Some will be more intelligent. Others, stronger. Faster. Others will have little experience. They will be weaker, less mentally adaptable. They'll break, and they will drop."

"When you wash out, and you will, nothing will happen to you. You will merely be put on a bus home. You will not owe any money, nor suffer legal penalties. You will go home."

"There are nintey of you standing on this spot right now, and only thirty-odd of you at most will graduate Basic Training."

"If you find those odds troublesome, you may turn around and board the bus behind you once more."

A pause. One minute. Two. Three. There is some rustling and shuffling in the ranks, and three people get up and move. With the first few stepping out, the timider find the encouragement to do likewise, and four more no-longer-cadets step out of formation.

"It's good to see that some young people still have the smarts to see when they're about to grab the shitty end of the stick."

Then Kirkland turns to look at them.

"The rest of you are dumber than a bag of retarded hammers."

Yeah, Ella thinks idly. Just like military school.

* * *

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 _Welp_. Here we go.

You may notice that not everyone is represented here. I tried to get many people in as possible, but since we have three places to use up, I feel that it will be better to introduce people in relative halves. Everyone will eventually be getting grilled at some point―for Squad 6, our OCs, things are going to be difficult.

Why? Because I like to make people suffer :)

But really, there is a reason. Really.

We've got three more places, as I've stated. We really filled them up quickly, and with some great characters, too. So stay tuned. Things are about to get complicated.

\- Alfenide, Over and Out.


	3. Day One, 1743HRS

**DAY 1**  
 **1743HRS**

S.H.I.E.L.D's Pre-Operations Academy in Rockland had been shut down and merged with the Pitch in 2010, after an unsuccessful attempt on the behalf of the World Security Council to prevent downsizing by the American Government. It was a necessary measure, according to Inter-Senate sources, as upholding a full sized academy such as the Kindergarten had rapidly turned out to be a fundamental breach of not only constitutional rights, but expenses; particularly as the country as a whole was facing severe financial troubles.

S.H.I.E.L.D. may have been the top counter-terrorism and intelligence agency in the world, but even it had to balance a yearly checkbook.

So when the whole pre-Academy program was scrapped, it wasn't just the Kindergarten that felt it; it's equivalents in Communications and SciTech were also shut down, it's student population transferred and it's services liquidated, but it was hard for Operations to not feel like they were taking the largest amount of stress. SciTech and Communications were global―they had campuses spanning nearly every continent on the planet, and therefore, when it was time to transfer the U18s, they had little to no problem in establishing smaller courses among the other campuses. Operations, however, did.

They had a grand total of _three_ bases in the United States countryside, one in New England, one in the Alaskan Frontier, and the smallest, least renovated in Pennsylvanian woodland. One that had been open for little more than a year by the time for downsizing came.

What had once been a small airfield in Ponderosa therefore virtually exploded with the new influx of cadets. The Pitch itself had yet to complete its expansion before the 2011 deadline. It left a population of U18s trying to accommodate space with three years of U21s Cadets, as well a handful of fully-administered Agents that were frequently flown in for additional training. A lot of personnel, with not a lot of space to hold them.

The unlucky ones had to use tents.

Now in 2013, the Pitch had gone through four separate rounds of construction. Penned on all sides by a high-security brick perimeter, but it was renowned in S.H.I.E.L.D. for it's more modern outlook on training. Gone were the days of throwing cadets out into a program that was no different than the standard Army basic training regime. At the Pitch, the cadets had access to some of the most technology advanced training equipment in the country―most of said apparatus, the begrudging courtesy of the Beach; their partner campus in SciTech. The Pitch had a state of the art MPG, complete with the sports and activities that it offered (Which may or may not have had a secret underground nuclear bunker beneath the athletics track. That rumor still remained uncertain), the helipad and aircraft hanger was completely refurbished, with the martial arts training centre and shooting range being moved from outside to underground. The buildings that remained were then turned into an indoor swimming and diving complex.

The whole purpose of building underground was to avoid expanding outwards into the surrounding woodland. It was a decision well-made, it later turned out, for in the time it took S.H.I.E.L.D. to justify building a new basic training compound on the far side of the Pitch, they had also managed to build a technical department, medical center and new mission control complex-come-education department, all underneath the main administrative block.

A fully fledged Operations course lasted for three years. The new cadets, Year Ones, were housed in what was called the Den, a reasonably large, sprawling series of barracks that held five separate units, or Squads.

It was organizing these ninety cadets into squads that, incidentally, took the longest.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"You will use the marker to write the following number onto the back of your left hand: One-Nine-Four-Two."

Kirkland looks at them all absently as a flourish of pen marker tips scribbling against skin follows his order.

Caesar looks up and around as the rest of the cadets get to work around him. He doesn't see why he has to write it on their hand. He can remember that number just fine, and he suspects, so can many of the others―but he's already learned what non-compliance, even for small stupid things like this, means. He had learned long ago. He had come up from the fabled Pre-Operations, himself.

Spending a year within S.H.I.E.L.D's admittedly bodged Education system hadn't done much for his hearing, however. Despite having his custom-fitted hearing aids in, he could only just make out what Kirkland was prattling on about.

The fact it was in English did not help matters, either.

"This here, children, is your Class number. You are Class 1942. Please commit this number to memory. If it helps, 1942 is also the date of the Battle of Stalingrad."

Ceasar has to wonder if this number is issued consecutively, and, when they started counting. His last Class number had been 2003. They couldn't have been the 1942th year. But maybe they weren't counting years. Classes weren't just counted per year, after all. There were Classes in SciTech and Communications―and the latter had several Classes per year. Not jus that... Caesar muddles through the mathematics absently, but with a drop out rate of close to 66%, how many classes does it take to cycle through basic training in one year to keep S.H.I.E.L.D. adequately staffed of specialists?

Did they even need _that_ many specialists?

He cringes at the worrying thought.

"You will take your pens and fill out the forms in front of you. When you are finished, you will place the cap back on your pen and put it on top of the completed form. Execute."

Caesar glances down to realise that as he was daydreaming, a folder had been placed down in front of him. It was bulky. He opened it up to find a bunch of administrative paperwork, which seemed, since he'd already been here a year, rather redundant at this point. He'd spent the last month and a half signing all kinds of crap he wasn't intending to see again, and had done exactly the same thing last year. Yet he still fills out the forms in front of him, entering the metrics of his meager existence for the thousandth time in what must only be a few days. Sometimes he gets stuck, and when he does, he glances sideways towards a girl working next to him and slows down to mimic her speed, watching as she fills out each space, and figuring out what he needs to put in.

She doesn't look up. Caesar does not thank her.

The last page is a contract, five dense paragraphs of legal language, and Ceasar lets out a slow, low breath. He can muddle through basic English and risk a sneaky glance at other people's hard work, but this is a little out of his league.

Still. He signs the contract. This is why he is here, after all. No way in Hell is he going back to Donets'k to sit on a line making car parts for the rest of his life.

"Congratulations," Kirkland says once they have finished. "As of this moment, you are officially members of S.H.I.E.L.D. Be advised that this status is probationary until you graduate from Basic Training."

There's no ceremony, no oath of service, no pomp or ritual. You sign a form, and you're a secret agent.

Caesar blinks. _Huh_.

What comes next is an hour long introduction into the history of S.H.I.E.L.D. It's video, so it's not as boring, but Caesar can feel the attention of the room slipping. He's seen it before, so he's having trouble keeping his mind on it, but before he can completely slip off into a pleasant daydream away from Kirkland and his pectoral muscles, it ends and the lights flicker on suddenly. Most of the cadets let out low groans as their eyes adjust.

"You will now be handed a slip of paper." Kirkland calls. "On this slip of paper, you will find your assigned Squad. Once everyone has received their Squad designation, we will move out."

When it comes around to him, Caesar picks up the paper and flicks it around.

 *****  
STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION**  
ACADAMY OF OPERATIONS  
S.H.I.E.L.D. TRAINING FACILITY 003#, THE PITCH 20555

CADET ASSIGNMENT

SHEVCHENKO, Caesar V. NKW 05D5326 assigned S.H.I.E.L.D. Acad. Of Operations Training Unit 6.  
 **EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY**.  
SHEVCHENKO NKW 05D5326 to report to CADET-LEADER: FAULKNER, Franklin WFD 05N4744.  
REFERENCE SERIAL [#] SIGMA-SIX-BLUE.

Sp INSTRUCTIONS:  
CADET SHEVCHENKO NKW 05D5326 is relieved from previous duty at ―, and is assigned to S.H.I.E.L.D. Acad. Of Operations Training Unit 6. Dependent travel and movement authorized to designated location.

11\. July, 2013.  
SPECIAL ORDERS  
NUMBER 45  
 *******

He scans it again and frowns. Okay. So that makes... _some sense_. He's had one of these before. He has no idea where Unit 6 is supposed to be, but he's pretty amazed to see that he and Frank Faulkner have been put in the same Squad. Two Pre-Operations cadets in the same unit? It didn't seem right, somehow.

Caesar shrugs. It doesn't really matter. He'll just follow everyone else. That seems to have worked well into his favour, so far.

He doesn't voice his opinion, but he can't help but feel that this whole S.H.I.E.L.D. thing is nothing but just one big successive bout of _Follow the Fucking Leader_.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

They spend the most of their first day at S.H.I.E.L.D. Acadamy standing around and waiting for things to happen. They are all fitted for uniforms, a pair of tailors looking at an entire Class, so it takes almost three hours to get all of them measured.

By this point, everyone is hungry. For Finley Powell, however, the hunger is more of a permanent, deep ache in his stomach. He hadn't eaten any breakfast. At the time, he had deemed it unnecessary.

Now, at least, he regrets it. Not the logic behind it. The logic was sound. He hadn't had the time to make breakfast himself, and he hadn't wanted to spend the money on over-expensive bottled water and soggy sandwiches at the train station, but that was before he realised that proceedings would be taking so long, and that having any money here, at all, was borderline on pointless. Here, it has been made abundantly clear that one's basic needs will be taken care of. For Finley in particular, it reminds him of the couple that had taken him in. In the vague, sure sense that everything he needed would be provided, so long as he played his part, too.

Part of him hates it. He acts on merit and logic, and a lot of the stuff S.H.I.E.L.D. has asked them to do, so far, was quite pointless.

But the food? Yes, Finley could agree with that. It has come far later than he would have liked, but it'll have to do. The pains in his stomach are not going anywhere.

It's served in the mess hall. Kirkland explains the rules to them, however, before they are allowed go in. Finley stares through the windows with intensity. Like he could make the trays of food disappear and re-appear before him if he tried hard enough.

"Breakfast is served from eight to nine hundred hours. Lunch is served between eleven-hundred and thirteen-hundred. Dinner between eighteen hundred and twenty. If you miss any of these designated times, there are freezers in the commissary that you may select frozen meals from. The Den, where your barracks is located, has multiple microwaves and other food preparation units that you may access if this happens." Kirkland says, slowly. "You will enter in single file. You will take a tray from the stack by the start of the line, and you may help yourself to anything you see without asking permission. When you have finished loading up your tray, you will find a table and seat yourself. Once you are seated, you will eat your meal. You may converse with your fellow recruits while you are seated. When I call your Class number, you will finish your meal, stop your conversations, return the trays to the collection racks by the door, and line up out here again." A pause. "Execute."

The room is afloat with cheerful noise, whoops and catcalls when the older cadets notice the new Class. Finley has stuffed his plate with chicken fajitas and a random assortment of others foods he thinks he might like when the catcalls turn into noises of surprise, and Finley realises, much to his irritation, that he's the smallest person around, surrounded on all sides by taller, wider looking cadets.

"Who the cripe d'ya think you are, Busu?" one of them asks, whacking him on the back of the head. "Couldn't wait 'till the eighteenth like the rest of us?"

"I'm nineteen," he states, and it's a mistake. Opening his big mouth is always a mistake, but half the time the consequences never mattered. Now, at least, they might.

They circle him dangerously. He wants to roll his eyes, tell them they can't be serious, the Agents and SOs would never allow a cadet to be threatened―but he is far from stupid, he knows that speaking up again, twice on his first day, is a bad idea.

"Is there a problem here?" A voice asks from behind him. He turns, surprised, and there's a young man standing behind them with a calm, collected expression, hands behind his back.

He's wearing an outfit not entirely dissimilar from the cadets surrounding them, only the insignia stitched into his navy blue pullover is different, and he's walking the uneasy line between pretty and handsome. He's taller than Finely. But shorter than some of the cadets surrounding them. Sort of lean, but not skinny, unlike Finley―there's a shifting pack of muscle along his shoulder when he moves, and he's pale, but not pasty. Long face, defined cheekbones with Schwartzkopf crystal-blue eyes; if Finley hadn't been surrounded by people ready and willing to pummel him into the ground, he might have referred to the stranger as attractive. Might have. Probably not.

The way he's smirking suggests that he already knows.

The other cadets glance once at his uniform, then at one another, somehow chastened. They don't answer, so he mustn't garner the same kind of respect as an equal, but they leave, so he's clearly got something that makes people do what he wants.

At any rate, this one could probably pummel Finley into the ground too, so he half turns towards the newcomer and grumbles out a thanks.

"They always do that," the boy says. "You probably smart-mouthed at them, didn't you?"

"Just trying to make a few friends." Finely grumbles, again.

"Hutzpa," the boy returns, but amiably. "Keep out of trouble, eh? I don't have time to come rescuing Little Ones all day. Lunch'll be over in a flash, and I've got chow to eat, old friends to see."

"They won't hit me. They're not allowed."

The boy raises an eyebrow. "And I suppose you've been here before?" he asks, and Finley, eventually, shakes his head. "The cadets here are not like the boys and girls in high school. They're trained killers, Gahba. And they've had one to two years more experience than you have in beating the living snot out of people on a regular basis. It doesn't matter wherever they're allowed or not―almost all of us are smart enough to avoid the consequences of slapping people around. Me included. Consider this your... fifth or sixth first warning at Operations Academy." He sticks his chin at a shorter, broader boy stood off towards the left, who Finely hadn't seen standing there before. "C'mon, _Цезар_. Let's bounce."

"Wait," says Finley. "Who―"

The boy has already walked off, but he turns over his shoulder before he can walk out of the door, his tray of food in hand. "Frank," He replies, simply. "Frank Faulkner. Post Pre-Operations Academy."

Well. It explains the uniform. Finley shakes his head quickly, and the boy nods. The door towards the mess hall and out of the confectionary swings on its hinges after he passes through, back, forth, back, and then there's a hand being waved in front of face.

"Wake up," says Josephine, a strange girl he'd met on the bus. "No sweet dreams in the dining hall."

"No sweet dreams anywhere, anymore," Finely replies. "They took those all away from us. Just like they took away our dignity."

"Says you," she shoots back. "Some of us still have ours. Some of us don't have to be rescued by muscle-bound male models."

Finley rolls his eyes.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

If Gracie had it her way, they'd have been set loose to explore on their own.

But Kirkland, the big brute of a Mommy that he is, is insistent on keeping everyone in neat, tidy lines, and it's these lines that they must walk in constantly, from place to place, when traveling as a group. Even after lunch, when they are all stuffed and content, the order does not wane―they are sent to a warehouse full of clothing and gear to get their uniforms. It's much like what happened at dinner, in the mess hall, actually. They file past the issuing stations in a single column.

All that time spent lining up ready to get measured seems to have paid off, because as soon as they arrive, they are issued out equipment close to immediately. There's no standing around waiting, this time.

Gracie looks down at the paper list and grimaces.

1 blanket  
1 rain cape  
1 service cap  
4 short sleeve blue shirts  
4 long sleeve blue shirts  
2 SHIELD issue navy blue pullover  
1 leather belt  
1 laundry marker  
1 pair black gloves  
2 grey jumpsuit  
1 tactical harness  
2 pair trousers  
2 pair boot socks  
1 pair SHIELD issued swim suit  
1 shower wrap  
2 sweat shirts  
2 sweat pants  
4 gym shirts  
4 gym shorts  
2 pairs black shoes  
1 pair combat boots  
1 pair flip flops  
12 pair black socks  
6 pair white athletic socks  
1 pair athletic shoes  
1 shoeshine kit  
1 SHIELD issue lock  
6 handkerchiefs  
6 towels  
6 washcloths  
12 white crew neck t-shirts  
6 braziers white only  
12 pair undershorts white only

She's got to carry _that_ all back?

Apparently she does. They spend the evening filling the rucksacks they are issued: uniforms, rain gear, equipment pouches, combat boots, running shoes, shower sandals, sewing kits, and a bunch of other articles of unknown purpose. When they have finally cleared the last station, it's late, and they are each weighed down with a rucksack and a bag that probably weighs a hundred pounds all together. Some of the smaller members of the Class are swaying under the load as they assemble again in front of the building. Marching them to their quarters with a hundred pounds of gear seems like the perfect opportunity for a conditioning exercise, Gracie dreads, but Kirkland has a bus waiting for them.

 _Thank God_. She thinks. The heat from today has faded, somewhat, but marching with this much weight would be just as bad. She's not in any mood to sweat it out again.

They are quartered, it appears, in a long, flat-roofed building that is only a few feet off the ground. The windows and roof just about peak over the grass, and there are two concrete stairwells at every few intervals. The only way to tell them all apart is too look at all the number designations―in between ever pair of doors is a designation, and Gracie has just about figured it out when Kirkland orders them to stop and turns to the long line of weary cadets. He jerks a thumb at the building.

"Here, I will dismiss you. Once you have been dismissed, you will find your Unit designation and enter inside. There you will find your barracks. Your Cadet-Leader will see to you from there. It is currently nineteen hundred hours. Lights out it as twenty-one hundred. You may have from here until lights out to familiarize yourself, but you are prohibited from leaving." He looks at them all for the longest time, as if gauging which ones would dare try to ignore his order. Gracie will admit, she certainly has some ideas, but she's also exhausted, and wants nothing more to do than just lie down and reflect on the long day.

"Dismissed." He tells them, sharply. They all begin to walk off, slowly, as if it's some kind of trick.

Apparently it isn't. Kirkland turns off and starts walking down the path, not looking back at them, his broad shape vanishing in the semi-darkness.

When she enters Squad 6's barracks, she's one of the last to enter; inside, she sees that the room is all concrete, with two rows of bunk beds on each side of the room. There are two sets of two lockers in between the bunkbeds, giving the illusion of designated space, but little privacy. At the very end, there is a door that leads out again up a set of concrete stairs, flanked on each side by what she must assume is the showers, gauging by the tiles she can see through the archway. A group of cadets all mingle about. Gracie pauses for a second, and slowly, very slowly, her mouth drops open.

They're the smallest cadets in the whole Class.

It takes them a few seconds to figure it out. There are only a few boys who reach the same height as all the other cadets, and two of them are in pre-Acadamy uniforms. The other two are a blonde haired, blue eyed boy, and a thin, dark haired one wearing sweatpants low on his hips. They stare at the smaller cadets. The smaller cadets look back at the larger ones in mute astonishment.

"Oh fuck," one of them grumbles. Gracie looks along. One of the more average sized girls with chocolate hair reaching down to her shoulders drops her bag heavily against the floor. "Are they being serious?"

The boy at the very end of the room, the one from Pre-Acadamy, grabs a clipboard which the other boy in uniform hands to him. He scans through the list.

"Eeup." He smiles, thinly and clears out his throat. "Okay, let's get this over with. Gather round." Surprised by the sudden authority (it must be the clipboard, Gracie decides) they all do just that. "My name is Franklin Faulkner, and the fuckwits in charge of this place have assigned me as your Squad-Leader. Be fair with me and I'll be fair with you. Bunking will be arranged by Fireteam. When I call out your name, go to the bunk I designate, and we might just be able to get some freakin' downtime before lights out."

Gracie looks around. She can't believe it. All of the large, hulking cadets in their year to choose from and they decide to stick all the smallest ones together.

It's not a coincidence, and the forlorn, grim looking faces around her tell Gracie that they are all thinking about why that might be.

Still looking down at the clipboard, Faulkner makes a face like they are not entirely off-base with their guesses.


	4. Day Two, 0433HRS

**DAY 2**  
 **0433HRS**

At precisely 0430 hours, the lights are turned on without warning and Frank Faulkner comes running out of the showers, fully dressed in his exercise outfit; the standard-S.H.I.E.L.D. grey jumper and sweatpants, his dark hair slicked back with water and the spikes of his track shoes clicking violently against the concrete in an efficient, well-practised cadence. He's flanked on either side by Caesar Shevchenko and Nanami Nakano. The latter also stand in their exercise gear, wearing almost identical expressions of grim recognition.

"Out of bed, now!" He shouts without commencement. "Get dressed into your exercise gear. Kirkland and his ugly mug will be gracing us with his presence in less than fifteen minutes, people! I want you in formation before he arrives. So get up! Get moving! Go, go, go!"

"What about breakfast?" Somebody asks.

"I don't want anybody throwing up when Kirkland has his way with us. That's assuming he'll let us eat in the first place."

Another voice. "Can we at least take a leak first?"

"No more than half a centiliter."

Those who hadn't slept naked rushed to shed their sleepwear, grasping for their lockers to put on their gray sweats.

Daniel Bonaventura spits against the ground. "What the fuck!" He complains. "Inspection isn't until quarter to five!"

He's right, of course, and many other members of Squad 6 glance over and around their lockers in direction of where Daniel is standing, either waiting for an explanation, or to see what will come of this blatant comment. Without pausing for emphasis, Frank leans in close, teeth bared and he slams his hand against the top of the bedframe, his fingers curling around the edge.

"Do you think Kirkland gives a crap about timing?" He barks. "Give that man the slightest chance of catching us off our guard and he'll set on us like a shark to Chrissie Watkins's tender ass!" Some of the cadets who had seen Steven Spielberg's _Jaws_ snicker. "Get _moving_!"

Glowering, Daniel pushes past him towards his locker and starts rooting around for his gear. His bunkmate, Rose, gives him an inquisitive glance, but wisely says nothing of the confrontation. It is indeed a wise decision from Matthews; Frank is still watching Daniel. Through his expression does soften on the athlete's back. Despite the change in approach, however, he is still alert. He makes his way down the middle of the squad bay, hands tucked securely behind his back.

"Ordinarily, we're on the morning schedule, straight to practice after breakfast." He calls. "I don't know about you, people, but I don't think think Kirkland is going to be very willing to allow us our free hour period. Best we prepare for any surprises now."

Reg Decker, who had been on the bad side of Kirkland before, stands just past his locker. He's already dressed, and while his hair wasn't combed, he managed to amplify the same sense of fresh professionalism his name is known for. Despite that, he's bouncing from heel to foot with that constant thrum of energy that doesn't quite run thin. "I know Kirkland." He states. His tone is only slightly above that of conversational, but his face is screwed up into a semblance of thought. "Why us?"

"He's right," Sadie Castillo, who shares her bunk with Reg, stands beside him. Reg doesn't turn to regard her, but his eyebrow quirks upwards when she speaks up again. "Kirkland started grilling Will on the bus, too."

"And me," Gracie calls. "He caught me lingering behind the rest of the group after yesterday dinner."

Inhaling sharply, Frank watches the rest of them change in his peripheral and turns to set a hand on Reg's shoulder. The smaller cadet doesn't startle, but he clearly wasn't expecting the physical contact. He tenses slightly with the approach. "It doesn't matter _why_ he's doing it," Frank says, looking at them both for an equal amount of time. "Only that he is."

A moment of reflection.

"But we're not about to make it easy on him."

And Frank at least, wasn't, apparently, because he assembled the Squad into a neat, tightly packed column with the intention of catching Kirkland off guard when he finally did show up. Two rows of nine. Ceaser brought up the end with Jamie, with Frank and Nanami bringing up the front. It wasn't a decision made lightly. Frank had no idea, at this moment in time, who had experience in a military setting and who didn't. He chose Caesar because he had been Pre-Operations. He had some sense of the system. Frank had caught Nanami doing stretches the night before, and when Frank had inquired, she disclosed to having martial arts training. That was close enough. Jamie was a behemoth compared to the majority of the Squad. While he might have no military training, he certainly looked the part, and that was the only thing that mattered, for now; while Frank will come to learn more about his Squad as time goes on, he needs immediate results.

He needed to create a facade until the Squad itself could sort itself out and reorientate itself into S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy life.

Crisp, military appearance. That's what he wanted when Kirkland came strolling through those doors. He can bully them and make things hard on them―and Frank is not stupid, he knows that is what Kirkland is setting out to do; why else would he deliberately alienate them by putting all the smallest, apparently weakest cadets together?―but today, he'll see that Frank and his Squad are ready, and he'll remember, no matter what he says to them and to others in the future, that on their first real day at the Pitch, _he_ saw _them_ in neat formation. Ready and waiting when he intended to catch them with their pants down.

When Kirkland does come swaggering in, his expression tightens at the sight of them, if only slightly.

"Well then, Cadet Faulkner," He greets with malicious enthusiasm. "Have something to say, do we?"

"Yes, sir." Frank matches the Agent's false hearty cheer with his own, identical passion. "Unit 6 standing by for your orders, sir!"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

If anyone held any mirth against Frank for Kirkland's response, they did not say nor show it. Even Daniel, who had made it quite clear that he did not like Frank in any shape or form, was silent as they assembled with the rest of the Class outside.

"You want to keep up," one of the boys from a different Squad, a large, red-haired fellow who could easily pass for one of the qualified Agents, tells them. The way he words the statement makes clear that it's not a suggestion, and he smirks at them all from his place among the ranks of larger cadets.

Daniel spits against the grass. Marley snorts. Frank stares.

Ata frowns. She understands what is going on here, but profoundly dislikes it.

And when it comes to running, she and the rest of the Squad do better than expected. Far better.

She cannot speak for her fellow cadets, but Ata is no stranger to long distance running. As they make their way down the paved roads of the Pitch, she recalls as the sun beats down on them, her homeland. It's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky a co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to soften the harsh rays. In the United States, it is cool, but in Ata's mind, the day is hot and dry.

Salty sweat rolls off your nose and stings your eyes. Your clothing is overwhelmingly hot and sticky. The stiff, dry desert breeze blows sand into your eyes and makes your hair stiff with salt. Your tongue feels as if it's coated in fur and your lips are chapped and dry. You long for crystal, cold water.

But this is Syria in war time. Clean water, cool or no, is very hard to come by.

They've been running in one direction since they started. Kirkland does not slow down. So far, nobody has managed to fall behind.

Ata runs in the middle of the Squad, and Kirkland, she sees, is no more than a dozen yards in front of her. As far as she can tell, he is not breathing hard―some, if not most, of the cadets are. Another Class passes them, and the cadets in that year run in perfect synchronicity. Class 1942 on the other hand, after reaching the tenth solid minute of running, is a loose formation of coughing, wheezing and gasping recruits in various states of misery.

Finally, Kirkland departs from the straight line he has been running. There is a large grassy field surrounded by a tartan track, and he veers onto it, skipping over the curb in a sickeningly light-footed fashion. The Class follows, some of them only barely managing not to trip over as they do so.

Kirkland slows down to a trot and comes to a halt when the bulk of the Class is in the center of the grassy oval.

"Two rows, boys and girls. This is S.H.I.E.L.D., not recess. Fall in!"

They shuffle around to line up as ordered.

"Leave plenty of space between yourself and the cadet in front of you," he instructs the back row, and Ata knows what's coming next. She risks a glance at Sun-Li, who's expression tightens with dread.

"Push-ups," Kirkland announces with cheer. "I count, you follow. Don't work ahead of me or we'll start back at One."

He drops into position on his hands, and looks at the Class as they follow suit.

"One."

He lowers himself until his chin almost touches the grass.

"I want to see good form here," Kirkland shouts. "Noses touching the ground with every count."

"One," he starts again. "Two. Three. Four. Five."

They get to the mid-thirties before the first cadets start wavering. As soon as it is obvious that some of them have begun to struggle, Kirkland starts shouting again.

"If you can't do thirty little push-ups, there's really no point in sticking it out for the rest of the training," He screams. "Do yourself a favor and just drop on that fat gut of yours."

The cadets struggle through a few more push ups on shaking arms, and then a few of them fall in a wave of groans.

Ten more push ups later, very few of them are still keeping pace.

"Those who are still on their hands, get back on your feet," he orders.

When they do so, Ata is surprised. Out of the dozen or so cadets standing, more than ten of them are from Squad 6. Ata, Jamie, Shevchenko, Kimble, Frank, Lena Tarasov, Castillo, Gracie Brook, Nanami and Marley are still all on their feet. Even Reg, much to Ata's surprise, is on his feet; but he's wavering. Sadie Castillo leans over slightly to keep him upright. Thankfully, Kirkland does not notice; he's too busy looking at Frank.

Frank stands at parade rest. While he is all calm and collective Agent on the front, Ata can see his hands at the back. They're bone white. Tightened into furious, shaking fists.

"Well, well, if it isn't the formidable Unit 6!" Kirkland calls, and waves his hand at them. "Unit 6! All of you, up on your feet. The rest of you sit down."

Slowly, the rest of them get up laboriously. Ata looks around at the ashen faces and surging chests. This doesn't look good.

"Pathetic weaklings, that's what I've got in this Class. Pineaded little morons. Only one-sixth of you have the capacity to withstand a little work, and they're the smallest of the lot!" Some of the other cadets are looking at them with bloody murder. The resentment on their faces is clear. Ata swallows, and a risks a glance at Frank. He's impassive, but when he can, he looks at the rest of his Squad and a flash of concern surfaces on his expression before it's quashed. He shares her anxiety too, it seems. Kirkland meanwhile continues on his rant. "There's only one Squad here that can do anything, and it's made up of this lot! Take a good look at them, little boys and girls. This Squad is going to beat you all and pass through basic while you're all here, squatting like overfed sea-lions on my pristine lawn."

This wasn't the way the show was supposed to go. Kirkland was supposed to pick on them, not set them up as the best.

"Most of you are going to ice out. Get used to that, little boys and girls. Most of you are going to end up back home, because you don't have the brains nor the skill to handle a morning jog. Most of you aren't worth the price of bringing you up here because you don't have what it takes. Some of you might make it. Some of you might be worth something to humanity. But don't bet on it."

He looks at Squad 6 then, grinning.

"So let's see if Squad 6 really is the best." He claps his hands together in mock cheer. "Squad 6. Line up in formation at the track starting line. One Lap. On the double! Go!"

The Track is a fully fledged Olympic-sized one. Daniel and Will exchange a glance, Ata sees, and despite the exhaustion, Will just about manages a smile.

The Squad shares one collective glance as they make their way.

 _This'll do them_. Ata thinks. _No way they'll make this_.

And it is difficult. Very difficult. The sun has barely come up over the nearby hill, and they're all drenched through with sweat by the time they've made a quarter of the distance. They're groaning and coughing as they try to keep the pace. It takes them ten minutes to get around the track, but when they get to the last quarter, they're forced to run through the middle lanes because the rest of the Class is surrounding them on two sides. Finley Powell falls afoul of someone's track shoe, and he stumbles; but much to Ata's surprise, Kimble grabs him up from under the armpits at the last second, and forces him back up.

"Watch your footing." She growls, but she's glaring at the cadets on either side of them, not Powell. The rest of the Squad pushes on.

Once they pass the finish line, the first ones to cross stagger to the edges and heave, double bent. Daniel throws himself against the grass on his back, and Frank makes his way over to him, half limping on stiff legs. Ata follows him.

"Lesson learned, I trust," she says when she gets within a suitable distance for conversation.

Frank tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a gasping cough.

"Oh no," he pants. "We're just getting started, Gahba."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Straight after, they are taken back to the middle of the grassy oval where they learn the basics of moving like soldiers. "Drill", it's called, and it takes three seconds for William Yoshita to make the conclusion that "Drill" _sucks._

Franklin, Caesar and some of the other Pre-Operations students all visibly relax when they are told what is coming up next. That is, until they are informed that _they_ will be the ones teaching their respective Squads.

Will smirks when Frank slowly, laboriously makes his way back to them, his hands shoved dejectedly into his pockets. It's a hilariously pathetic affair. It takes all of Frank's effort and Caesar's terrifying presence to get them all to respond to their movements commands at the right moment. Daniel and Will in particular get a kick out of keeping deliberately half a second out of sequence. The third time Frank notices, he leans forwards and yanks on his hair, squatting with his head between his knees.

"I swear to God!" He very nearly screams. "If you don't start moving properly, Bonaventura, I'll stab you up the ass with your own bayonet!"

"Ooh, Kinky." Will grins. Daniel laughs out once, loudly and freely. It's the first time Will has seen the moody prig actually smile.

Caesar sends Will and Daniel to opposite ends of the line.

"That sounds like shit," Frank opines when they all march across the space, trying to maintain unison. "You people march like a herd of spastic goats! I've seen crippled pensioners move faster!"

After two hours of loud and repetitive instruction, Will finds that drill works best when you switch off your brain, and just act like a voice-controlled robot. The rest of the Squad come to the same conclusion. Jamie, Astrof, Williams, Kimble, Tarasova, Nanami and Capital seem to do quite well. They take to it faster than all the others. Tarasova and Captial in particular, who when working together, seem to become this super-duo from Hell. They work effectively together, acting in unison and earning real smiles from Ye Ole' Tryhards. Reg, Sun, Finley, Gracie, Kahala and Castillo meanwhile decide that they can't be arsed with drill, and pretty much just stand around doing nothing whenever Frank so much as takes his eyes off of them. In the end, Frank has Castillo, Finley and Sun doing some semblance of a routine, but Reg, Gracie and Kahala end up, somehow, disappearing to the other end of the field and returning just as Frank realises that he's lost three of his cadets.

They still suck like fuck, in Will's opinion, but by the end they've got better―good enough for Frank to stop self-mutilating his scalp at regular intervals and to just stand there with his hands folded, scowling.

When they all stand in front of Kirkland again, all still and pretty like, as they get chewed out for their less than spectacular drill skills, Will considers walking up to that smug bastard and announcing that he wants to quit, before he ends up sweating his ass off, only to wash out anyway without anything to show for the work.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that as much as he hates getting bossed around, having to take a bus back home would be a lot worse.

Simply because he wants to see the look on Kirkland's face when the graduates as an Agent in three years time.

 _Hey, at least I'll be in great shape_. He thinks, picturing a nice, large fist sinking into Kirkland's self-satisfied little face.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Ordinarily, the standard Academy of Operations and Espionage day was split between physical training and lessons. The second day, on account of Class 1942 not being fully inducted, was different, but ordinarily the cadets would expect to be awoken at six hundred hours to perform morning calesthentics before being issued back to their barracks and changing for Mess I at eight. After it varied between cadet to cadet―most of them had classes together as Squads, while others were scattered between various subjects until ten-hundred hours when they would be issued a forty-five-minute break.

In the case for Squad 6, it was in reverse. Since they were on the morning schedule, they had physical training―personal combat, marksmanship, etcetera―until ten-hundred hours. After the hour break, they had the afternoon classes with Squads One and Twelve. This could range from anything from computer programming to English literature, to Basic Espionage to person perception, automaticity and community behaviour.

Overall, they had three hours of PT and four hours of academic studies per day. Additional training was a joint decision between the Squad leader and his cadets, and the SO. Altogether, cadets were expected to put in over nine hours of work, six days a week. They had Sunday afternoons off.

Today, Class 1942 did not have classes. Instead they filed into their barracks and collapsed on their respective bunks.

Frank walked in with Caesar, wearing a slight frown.

"Okay, listen up." He calls. "I'm not going to lie, that was rough. It was beyond rough. But don't go getting it into your heads that it's going to change. It's not."

A murmur across the bunks. Frank flashes his hand up.

"I know, I know. But the best thing we can do is just chin up and carry on. You can have until dinner to relax, but don't fall asleep; we're expecting our SO at thirteen-hundred, so we ought to make a good impression, eh?"

"I swear to God," Will pipes up. "If Kirkland walks through that door, I'm hanging myself from my bunk."

Daniel snorts from his locker and slams it shut. He lies on his bed with a magazine on motorbikes. "You can certainly say that again."

At that very moment, Kahala comes running in with half her face covered by a black balaclava. There's two little spiky mounds on each side of her head. She stops, considers Frank for a moment, and bends her knees, flexing her arms inwards.

" **I'm the Batman!** " She exclaims in a deep, gravely voice, and the majority of the barracks bursts into laughter as she dances away, Reg and Gracie hot on her heels, arms filled with contraband that they appear to have "found" in the few minutes of freedom they've been issued. Or, perhaps, in the five minutes that they escaped during drill. Either way, they're out the door no sooner than Castillo can peak her head out from under her bunk.

Blinking, Frank walks straight to his bed, lies down on his front, grabs his pillow and _screams_ into it.

* * *

 **[STALINGRAD]**

I rarely, if ever, put bold in my main articles of work, but there was no way I could accurately depicture the term "Batman", so...

Shorter chapter today, only because I've got a Mock tomorrow morning and I need to cram in some last minute revision.

As for the drill, I participated in Junior ROTC for about two years. I live in a small-ish town. We sucked. We sucked so hard it was hilarious. I know how tedious it can get; so I couldn't help but reflect it here. It gives us a chance to see our more rebellious of cadets, anyway.


	5. Day Two, 1223 HRS

**DAY 2**  
 **1223 HRS**

Mordechai Azoulayn was Old School S.H.I.E.L.D. So old, in fact, his SO wore the SSR uniform. So old, in fact, that he remembers a time when they recruited on merit, rather than on hypothetical test results on photocopied paper.

Not that the Reaper had anything against the eighteen young men and woman assigned under his tutelage. He had yet to find the time to make such a judgement. It was simply down to the fact that Mordechai, affectionately named the Reaper by his specialist counterparts close to forty years ago, was used to... uncomfortable, and difficult, rather to that of clean and accessible. He was used to sitting it out for months in the Negev Desert, keeping his beady little eye on the region for his suited S.H.I.E.L.D. superiors, not watching over a crowd of sharp haired, clean shaven cadets who couldn't tell the butt from the barrel. He was used to standing on the sidelines with the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. military, not being brought in on the red-tape with the hush-hush secret-secrecy types.

And his attitude had not gone unnoticed. Nor had his reputation. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. had been formed, the top brass of the Military Division had always been Jewish. Not so much within the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D., within the ranks of Espionage and political cuttrthroats—they remained, as is fitting, distinctly Americanized, but in the Military Division, it was common. There was a myth going around that Jewish generals did not lose battles, and with that, added to the IDF's distinct professionalism, had created a theme within the ranks of the _le Fantassin_. So far it was true. The Reaper had certainly never lost a battle, and his decorations—and the scars—proved it.

It made many Jews within the Academy of Operations and Espionage dream of being S.H.I.E.L.D's Military Division; they would achieve honor there, and it conferred prestige on them from the very beginning. It also caused resentment, of course. Already Mordechai had heard whispers in the halls. Squad 6, particularly from those who actually knew the history of S.H.I.E.L.D, was starting to be called the Kike Command, and it was Mordechai to blame for such.

Some liked to remember that it was Steve Rodgers, a poor American boy from Brooklyn, that helped form S.H.I.E.L.D. If Steve Rodgers could effectively save the world, then it did not matter a bit wherever you were a Jew or not.

But it did matter, and the Reaper knew that. They knew that. The eighteen young men and woman now under his command knew that.

They stand before him now, the cadets of Squad 6. Mordechai has had the unfair advantage of having access to their files, so he knows more about them academically than they'll probably ever themselves, but he can see now, however, that there is also a deep, platonic understanding between them that he'll never hope to achieve. That was standard. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted the cadets to bond, to form firm ties between themselves. That firmness comes from superiors, that comradeship comes from their comrades.

Only, Squad 6 had learned this through cruelty rather than comradeship. They have to stick together because it's been made abundantly clear that everyone else is against them.

They'd had it rough over the past few days, Mordechai knew. He'd heard Kirkland gaffing off in the Instructor's Mess about it, like it's some form of art.

But he can see it in their postures, in their tense gazes and expressions of begrudging compliance. In Sadie Castillo, who has come to protect the cadets from the people who were supposed to protect them in the first place. In Nanami Nakano, who sees her instructions as unprofessional and unfair—who looks at the Reaper now with nothing but discontent. In Grace Brooks, who has hidden her real talents for the sake of her peers. In the young, impressionable Reginald Jr., so much like his father yet completely different—utterly brilliant, yet refined. In Kahala, exceptionally smart, terrifically unconcerned with classwork and the Academy's representation of such. In William Yoshita, who Mordechai knew, had been one of Kirkland's first victims, who is still standing defiant despite the public verbal flogging. In Lena Tarasova, with her dark history. In Capital, who is friendly to a fault. In Rose Matthews, who states at him with enough understanding to make his skin crawl, whose sarcasm leaves cutting marks. In Caesar Shevchenko, who reminds Mordechai more of his son than he'd strictly like; all military muscle and command. In Josephine Kimble, who appears to have adapted to them and the Academy with startling ease. In Ata Qadir Koyi, who has seen enough war to make most men break. In James Blake, strong and silent and unbreakable. In little Sun-Li, who is destined to break in this Academy, but unknowingly defiant and exceptional all the same. In Finley Powell, much like the former—but protected and valued for skills many of the other cadets could only dream of possessing. In Daniel Bonaventura, who emits a surprising amount of raw, natural anger for reasons unknown to Mordechai. In Cecily Astrof, who despite the recent strife, remains as fearless and as bold as ever. In Franklin Faulkner, who has both the honor and the misfortune of leading this group of wayward cadets.

Mordechai sees it. He does.

What he wants to know, is _why_.

But that is something Mordechai will have to learn over time. The cards are stacked against Squad 6, that much is all he knows. That is all he really needs to know. So he stands firm at parade rest, looking at each and every one of these cadets for a moment of time. He'll get there.

As for now, introductions have to be made.

"You are different. Very, very different. Some of you will have known this from a very young age, some of you will only have realised this in the last few years. But you should all know that you are special, extraordinary, _emla creme de la creme_."

Some of them squirmed. Some of them just stared back at him. But given the subject, that wasn't entirely surprising.

"You all have capabilities that are as individual as your personalities, different levels, different strengths, different weaknesses." He paused. "We'll make you better."

"You were all selected," he went on, speaking normally. "S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy is first and still the premiere teaching facility of its kind in the world, and you are the new batch of students. You will be taught here for three years, trained by some of the finest practitioners in their fields, as well as other skills and subjects we feel are necessary."

"However, I'll make this point clear to you, especially those who believe that they can come here just to mess around. This is serious. You have all made a conscious decision to use your abilities for the benefit of humanity, and this is where you start your journey."

"There's no doubt that this world you will find yourself in is a dangerous one, but if anyone can survive it, if anyone can make it safe, it is you, with our help." He glances across them again. "After all, the so-called superheroes might win us the war; the so-called superiors and politicians might reap us the benefits; but it's the commitment and the bravery of the S.H.I.E.L.D. footsoldiers, the specialists, the medics, the engineers, the scientists, the Agents, that wins each individual battle along the way."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

With the Old Man off again to acquire their timetables, Daniel spends his time lay back on his bunk, reading _One of the Damned_ by F.C Ball. It's not remotely interesting, and Daniel had stopped actually paying attention to the subject matter hours before, but it gives him an excuse to sit here on his lonesome than go around making friends.

It's not that he hates everyone here. He doesn't. It's just that he doesn't give enough of a crap to go around getting all buddy-buddy with people. Not when he has absolutely nothing in common with them, that's for sure, and definitely not when he desperately wants to go back.

Not home, no. Just back.

So he's on his bunk, doing his own thing, and on the bunk beside him, Sun-Li and Rose are having a conversation for the likely plausible reason that there is none else better, really, to have a conversation with. Caesar, Will and Chisely-Mc-Tryhard are all on the opposite side of the barracks, and Reg and that little fellow from England are on the bunk further down the line, talking a storm about something nobody could even hope to comprehend, let alone sit in on. Everyone else is out. Daniel has nothing against any of them, really, but three minutes into Sun and Rose's conversation and they start asking about what they had for lunch, and suffice to say, one of Daniel's triggers is most certainly pulled.

"Voi due parla italiano come ignoranti americani." He calls loudly, pointedly, flipping over a page with more force than what was strictly required. As an Italian-American himself, he can see the irony of such a statement, but he can't help it. Rose butchers the pronunciation of _pansotti alla genovese_ , and he's spitting and cursing like Satan's step-son during Sunday mass in automatic response.

Rose looks affronted for a second, perhaps a few seconds, and Daniel is ready-and-waiting for a sarcastic assault when she replies instead with the inquisitive: "You're Italian?"

"No," He grunts. "I just go around with this surname for shits and giggles. I grew up in South Philadelphia."

"Explains your accent," she snorts, and _damn_ , Daniel thinks, _if that Pacific Northwestern arrogance isn't ten feet thick_.

Sure, he's got nothing to say; he's just as bad, but that's the reason why he doesn't voice it. Foresight and moderation. When you get angry, you say stupid things, and then whatever crap comes out of your mouth is more than likely to get thrown back in your face.

"Says the one speaking with the prevelar raising." He replies, simply.

Rose's lip curls upwards. Seems she enjoys the idea of having someone to verbally spar with. Or a punching bag. Either way, Daniel doesn't care. Sun meanwhile looks halfway terrified, and Christ, that Daniel does hate. It reminds him of Florence and Valentine back home, and he can't have that, so he half turns to her and asks, however bluntly. "So when is dinner again?"

The taller girl definitely knows what is going on, but she doesn't say anything. That's what Daniel has come to like about her, actually. She's defensive as Hell and borderline on plain rude, but she's even more defensive of the little guys. That Daniel can respect. Park meanwhile rattles off the times with perfect recollection and Daniel makes a show of thinking it over, scanning and re-scanning the lines upon lines of Tressell's life, completely lost. Sun-Li reminds him of when he was little. Well, one tiny sliver of him. The sliver who pretended to be happy to keep the peace. She's got the same nervous smile. Like her teeth are made of glass and her lips are laminate.

"I ain't waiting that long." He grunts and hauls his ass acrobat-styley from off of his bunk so they don't see his eyes getting damp. Christ, he must be allergic to the air freshener they use here or something.

He'll get back to that stupid book later. Maybe.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Once Agent Azoulayn has returned, Squad 6 is given their timetables for the duration of the year.

Each day is exactly the same up until Sunday, it turns out. The cadets stand around comparing their schedules. The standard syllabus also appears to apply to the majority of them, with certain students differing in terms of certain subjects, like languages. They're sorted into blocks. Like, for instance, the Academic Block, which covers subjects like physics and geometry, social studies, and history both military and political; only slightly different from what they had learned in high school, just at a significantly higher levels. There is also espionage elements, aptly named the Reconnaissance Block, which covers the computer sciences and the 'Assignments', which have so far eluded them. Standard Basic, as it is known, which covers groundwork like map reading and first aid. Endurance Block, for Squad 6, is in the morning. That's the good stuff, according to Frank: physical and mental challenges of the simulated combat scenarios.

Academic Block I to IV. Reconnaissance Block. Standard Basic Block. Endurance Block. Firearms Block. Physical Training Block. Six subjects all filled with little, sub-subjects. Layers upon layers of things to learn.

Jamie understands the reasons for this, but he has to wonder, idly, how he'll do. He's a good fighter. He'll do very well there. He knows that, it's just that there is also a large chunk of Reconnaissance that evolves around People Skills, and not to mention, half of the bloody syllabus is around academic subjects he frequently flunked out on in high school.

He had done well on some of the tests, he knows, right at the beginning, otherwise he wouldn't be here, but he can't help the way his throat tightens at the sight of _A First Course In Differential Equations With Modeling Applications_. At least he is not the only one.

Some of the cadets look mighty uncomfortable with the fact that an institution titled the Academy of Operations and Espionage still has to engage in school subjects. Only Park, Powell and Decker appear to be actually smiling.

Today it was Saturday. Tomorrow it would be Sunday, and the only had a half day then, so classes would begin properly on Monday. Jamie looks down at his paper. They wake up at six-hundred, where they would be inspected by Agent Azoulayn before breakfast at six-twenty hours—or Mess I as it was called now. After that, they had an hour free time, until they had Physical Training Block at seven-fifty-five, which lasted until nine-twenty hours. Endurance Block until ten-forty-five hours followed from there. They then have a break. Reconnaissance Block from eleven-hundred to twelve-twenty. After that, it was lunch—Mess II. What followed on from there was Academic Block I, Academic Block III and Standard Basic Block, which all lasted until fifteen-twenty hours, after which they would have a break and prep for Firearms Block, where they would then have standard PT until eighteen-fifteen hours. Dinner was at eighteen-twenty hours. They'd be recalled to their barracks at nineteen hundred. What they wanted to do until twenty-one hundred was their own business.

And that was just the _Monday_. They had another four days after that, and the two half-days on the weekend.

Everyone else seems quite content with their timetables, so Jamie tries to feel the same way. It can't be that bad, surely, but he has trouble stirring up any enthusiasm. Once they've got a feel for it, they are told to put their timetables either in their pockets if they need it, or to stick it on the inside of their lockers. Reg Decker voices the opinion that they should probably photocopy them, and he earns a nod of respect from Azoulayn.

Once that is done, they proceed to weapons issue.

That at least gets a reaction from him. Jamie trots down to the arms locker in the basement of the administrative block with the rest of the Squad, feeling happy and content in a way he struggled to back home. There are no windows, and a rather extraordinary steel door separates the room from the rest of the Pitch. Agent Azoulayn has them line up in the hallway outside the arms room, and then takes a rifle from the attendant.

"Here at AoAE we have a practice of entrusting our cadets with three sets of equipment," he tells them, walking up and down the line. "Each cadet in our program each receives two firearms and a sidearm, in your case, you will be issued a S.H.I.E.L.D. standard FR-100 SHORTSWORD, a M1911 and a standard M9 Bayonet. Two years ago, the FR-100 was cleared for active service; you are the first-tier of Cadets being drilled in it's use. By the time you graduate, it will be the new standard issue for all S.H.I.E.L.D. Military personnel. The M1911 meanwhile is replacing the Smith & Wesson for reasons I care little for."

Agent Azoulayn lifts the FR-100 and considers it.

"This FR-100 will be your best friend for the remainder of your training here, and for those graduating into the Military Division, the remainder of your active service. This weapon is the training version of the one you will be issued once you graduate. It is identical to your future issue rifle in weight, balance, and operation, with only one difference."

The attendant hands him a square polymer box, and he flips it around and inserts it into an internal loading port. Jamie did not have much experience with guns, but even he could see that the reloading procedure was strange; the entire forward section of the rifle hangs in by the hinges near the muzzle. Only instead of bullets, what Azoulayn places inside is dense and square. He cycles it all the same, however, cocking the handle on the left side clockwise.

"The difference is that this weapon does not fire live ammunition of any kind. It uses self-contained, disposable magazine packs like the service weapon, but the magazines of the training version only contain a bunch of circuits, weights, and a battery. The fired rounds are simulated and scored electronically. When you use conventional firearms, meanwhile, you will be firing paintballs."

Agent Azoulayn removes the magazine from the weapon, cycles the action, and cradles the gun in his arms as he slowly walks down the line of recruits.

"The same goes for your M1911, and in situations where you will train with your knife on other cadets, you will be issued with a dummy." He glances along the line again. "For now, I will instruct you in the use of the FR-100. Tomorrow, at this time, we will learn the M1911. Expect to be drilled in the use of all three weapons during the Physical Training, Firearms and Endurance Blocks." Agent Azoulayn considers his rifle again. "The FR-100 is a multipurpose weapon designed to defeat a wide range of threats. Those astute cadets may have noticed that the reloading procedure is strange and unconventional to that of a normal rifle. This is because, cadets, that this rifle does not fire bullets. This rifle fires flechettes. This means, cadets, that this rifle fires .303 caliber fin stabilised projectiles. They fracture into shards upon impact and are more powerful than conventional bullets."

He looks at the middle of the row for a moment. "The rifle operates in automatic or user-controlled modes and can fire single shots, any combination of multiple-round salvos, and fully-automatic. This means that a user has both a machine gun, and a sniper rifle, in one unit. Most certainly with the available mods accessible from this arms locker, one can add scopes and larger magazines that modify this weapon to reflect their preferred form of firearm." He starts moving along the line again. "For educational purposes, you will all be taught the use of each and every modification, from long range capabilities to rapid-fire, close quarter engagements."

He turns to regard the whole line again.

"You will each receive and sign for one FR-100 weapons system. The serial number of the weapon will be linked to your own S.H.I.E.L.D. serial number. Let me be absolutely clear on this: if you aim your weapon at another person without authorization or instruction, you will wash out of Basic Training instantly. You will only handle your weapon when instructed. The same will go for your pistol and your sidearm. Once you receive your rifle, you are to sling it over your shoulder for the march back to your quarters. You will stow the weapon in your locker, and if you so much as touch it again between that point and the first day of weapons training, your status as cadet will be terminated."

He looks at the line of recruits for a moment to gauge whether his words have had sufficient effect.

"Now you will approach the attendant one at a time, and sign out your weapon. Once you have received your rifle, you will go back to the end of the line and reform it. Go."

Jamie feels something light and happy in his chest like excitement as he watches the cadets in front of him go and receive their rifles one by one. For the first time, it feels like they are really in S.H.I.E.L.D, stood in uniform, receiving weapons, even if those weapons are incapable of live fire. He looks at the rifles slung over the shoulders of the cadets walking past his spot in the line. The rifles are clad in flat black polymer shells with angles. They look deadly. They look great.

Then it is his turn to sign out his rifle. The weapon is heavier than its compact shape suggests, and he repositions it on his shoulder briefly before starting his walk to the back of the line.

When they all have their weapons, Agent Azoulayn lines the Squad up in front of the building again, and then marches them back to their quarters.

"You will open your lockers and place your rifles in the holding clamps on the right side of the locker," he orders. "After you stow your rifle, you will not touch, look at, or think about it until being told to do so by me, or an instructor."

There are padded clamps on the rear side wall of each locker, and a polymer bracket on the floor that matches the shape of the rifle's butt end exactly. Jamie secures his rifle, closes his locker, and joins the rest of his Squad to line up by the center aisle of the squad bay.

"You will now go back to your lockers and take out your Combat Uniform. If you have not yet worn this uniform and do not know which uniform this is, find the uniform marked SCU. Please also remember that your service cap is to be worn with your SCU, no matter how much it may ruin your perfect hairdos." Jamie moves back to his locker without blinking, and opens it up to find that the uniform he is speaking of consists of the grey jumpsuit, harness, t-shirt, boots and belt, as well as the cap. He gets changed with the rest of them. "Once you are changed," Agent Azoulayn calls. "You will then take down your rifle and return to the squad bay."

Once finished, they all stare at Agent Azoulayn from their respective places. Agent Azoulayn smirks.

"You are now ready to begin your training."

That light, buzzing feeling fluttering around in Jamie's chest resurfaces.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Now finished for the day with a five mile run to the firing range and back, the cadets were forced to run to their lockers and stow away their rifles, before going to the showers. Ordinarily one was supposed to go in through the 'front', so they could avoid tracking mud into the squad bay and just store their crap on the benches, but the genius who made the rooms forgot to recall that to get to the showers, one also had to grab their towels and necessary showing gear beforehand. It meant that no matter what, the Squad was going in through the door near the end of the barracks. It also meant that the door leading out of the showers had yet to be actually used.

Reg himself took a quick five-minute shower, just like the rest of them, then toweled off and pulled on fresh undies, a pair of sweats and an AoAE T-shirt. When he got back to his bunk, he dumped his pack, dirty SCU uniform and boots on the floor, then peeled off the socks and tennis shoes he'd worn back from the showers. He collapsed onto his bed in an instant, relishing in the feeling of finally being able to close his eyes for an instant and rest.

But then, of course, he realises that he can't just do that. Not yet. So he heaves himself up painfully towards the end of his bunk, where he could see the tops of the lockers from his vantage point and reaches along to grab his phone.

It rings for three seconds before the other end of the line is picked up, and Reg breathes out quick and hard.

"Hey, Abby." He greets. "Can'ya put Mom on the phone for us?"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Right. Law Mock done. College term done. This chapter done. Whoop. Been a good day, so far. Now I actually have the time to reply to reviews!

"Voi due parla italiano come ignoranti americani: _You two speak Italian like ignorant Americans_ "

Isn't Daniel just **charming**?

The Military Division is a segment of S.H.I.E.L.D. home to what I affectionately always refer to as the _Stormtroopers_ , or, perhaps even more fittingly, the _Red Shirts_. The guards, the footmen and the little men running around in combat gear who get slaughtered in the face of the Main Antagonists. Hell. _Someone_ has to guard that top secret base off yours. Said someone also has to die whenever the big baddie comes along and destroys everything. Mordechai Azoulayn is just one of many.

The FR-100 was based on a design of Norsemugnadnr's. Considering how by the time AoS S2 is set, Coulson's team have access to hi-tech weapons such as the I.C.E.R. and other goodies, it would not be unreasonable to suggest that S.H.I.E.L.D. itself was issuing it's own standard rifle for it's personnel before it's fall; considering how they're also building several helicarriers at once. Training cadets from the get go seems to be a logical situation, but it runs the risk of slimming down a potential agent's area of expertise. Hence why, realistically, a cadet would likely be trained with the FR-100 and a conventional rifle at the same time. It is also the reason they are trained in the use of a standard M1911.

Furthermore, it might seem strange that cadets would be taught basic academic subjects, but I think it would be standard, particularly at a college level. High-level mathematics and political studies I suspect would be a necessary part of the job, and who's telling wherever these cadets had adequate schooling before they joined? The Academy of Operations, while only recruiting O18s, must take in individuals from a wide range of backgrounds, considering the way they recruit, so catch up, I assume, would be rather necessary. HaLeY bEtH's character Jamie is a perfect example of this. A highly capable recruit in terms of physical capability, and reasonably intelligent in his own right, but with little academic fore-knowledge. Bring him up to speed on his science and his Shakespeare (Not... that the cadets will be learning Shakespeare. I resent _the Tempest_ with a loathing indescribable, so don't worry, they're safe.) and he'll be a proficient, well-rounded Agent.

Heck, if I can use basic geometry to defeat three Russian fleets in a ten-year-old strategy game, it's got to be worth _something_.

As always, hope you enjoy.

\- Alfenide, Over and Out.


	6. Day Five, 0653 HRS

**DAY FIVE**  
 **0653HRS**

It was the bullet that did it. Nothing special, but then, it never is. The ones that get you are often the most mundane. In this case, it's a .45, hollow point round slicing straight through the shoulder. Pectoralis, deep muscle. 13mm long.

Ouch.

So it's natural, all things considered, for her to remember that tired old saying.

War Born, Fight To Die: You'd better wear your Helmet, Comrade.

Because there's always going to be one you miss. One stray bullet, one day. Someday.

Only, this fateful bullet did not hit Vade. Not exactly.

It hit Cyrus, and because the stupid prig hadn't been wearing his vest at the time, it hit him bad. Bad enough, Vade estimates—while taking a squealing sharp turn onto the road with at least sixteen military cruisers chomping at their rear, and screaming proficiency at the top of her lungs because _God Flaming Dammit they're not sure as Hell not going down just yet_ —he's got an hour before he kicks it and winds up properly dead.

That is, if Vade doesn't lose her shit and kills him first.

But that would be, at best, counter-productive. So tries to refrain from doing that.

Instead, she rams her foot onto the acceleration to the point of pivoting off of the driver's seat, and focuses on racking up some semblance of a plan aside from driving and driving and _driving_ until they run out of gas. Vade—Or, Agent Johanna Vassenia Decker, but Fuck, who cares about the formalities anymore—grips the steering wheel with enough force to make the bones in her fingers ache, biting down hard on a plastic e-cigarette she may or may not supposed to be smoking in the first place.

Behind her, half collapsed on the back seats under strict orders to keep his stupid head down, Councilman Rockwell's assistant, Cyrus Sager, tries his hardest to keep his groans of discomfort quiet. He clutches the darkened pool of fabric along his shoulder, liquid crimson seeping through his trembling fingers.

If his pallor suggested anything, he was only getting worse. Vade notes this with a profound sense of displeasure.

She will admit, though, he's doing a pretty credible job at dying so far. She doesn't know many people who can get capped in the shoulder, bleed out, and keep their mouth shut all at the same time.

"How you handling back there?" Vade asks, without her trademark bite, and just about manages to risk a glance at the rear-view mirror. "Still with me?"

Cyrus gasps through gritted teeth. It might be an attempt at communication, or just another muted expression of pain. Vade can't be too sure.

She swerves into the left-hand lane, letting out another infuriated swear when a stray bullet from their pursuers smashes into the left wing mirror with the impact of a whistling crack. It shatters the glass, leaving a glistening spiderweb finish that is far too close for comfort.

Vade considers it in her peripheral and bites down harder on the end of her e-cigarette.

They're not going to get away. Not like this.

The red and blue lights behind them blur into one giant tide of an incoming threat. A chorus of wailing sirens renting the still air like a butcher's cleaver on a carcass. It was a violence to the calm that had been before. When her eyes divert from the rear-view mirror to that of her own reflection in the front screen, she idly wonders, if everything goes go arse up here, if she has enough pills for the pair of them.

But then she slams a fist onto the steering wheel in another show of pent up rage, startling Cyrus out of his stupor and making her hand spasm in pain.

 _Fuck that_. Vade internally scolds, thinking over her remaining options. _Suicide is a coward's way out._

True, she's been trained to kill herself in at least ten separate ways upon being captured, but if she's going to die now, she's going to die with an FR-100 in her arms like a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent is supposed too.

Despite her determination to fight and die an Agent, however, the thought keeps on bouncing around her skull, again and again, over and over.

 _Why_?

Political ousting is one thing, but this isn't a good old canning. Rockwell isn't a murderer. Neither is her step-father. This is something else entirely. Something akin to a flippin' extermination.

"Vade."

Cyrus' voice is quiet enough that Vade nearly misses it, but with heightened senses that bring about a snappish sense of skills, she just about hears him over the roar of the engine, the wail of sirens behind them, the rat-a-tat of firearms and the blood pounding in her ears. She hears him, and snaps her head around with intense frustration.

"What is it?" She snaps. "I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut."

"We gotta' go n'get Rockwell. Vade. We gotta get—" A bullet slams into the back window, but the glass is bulletproof by design, and it just rebounds nosily off. Vade breathes in sharply. Cyrus slides further down the seats, and he groans. "We gotta' go get him. Please, Vade."

 _Poor bastard._ Vade screws her eyes shut for a second. _That poor, poor disillusioned bastard._

What kind of a twit stares down the barrel of their own immediate demise and demands to go and save someone else instead?

Well, actually. Vade pauses, contemplates that, and very nearly shoots herself then and there for her own stupidity. Talk about being a flipping hypocrite sometimes.

Though while she might certainly deserve a bullet to the face, Cyrus doesn't. He doesn't deserve any of this. All she has to do is look at him, sat slouched the way he is, with no idea what is going on aside from the particulars, and it only reinforces the opinion.

He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't. He doesn't deserve to die. Not here, not now. Not like this. Not a traitor.

That and Vade is an Agent. She's a Hoplite. She took an oath. If she has to bleed her veins dry to keep him from spilling any of his own, so be it.

Sure, it's a nice sentiment, but it means fuck all when he's sat in the back of his own S.H.I.E.L.D. administrative saloon spilling bodily liquids out an unlucky bullet hole and she's the one apparently whole and otherwise unhurt. Vade grimaces.

 _E_ _nough is enough, now. Enough wallowing. Time to get to work._

Snapping her head down with a bout of sudden inspiration, Vade considers the Hoplite patch on her uniform for a moment or two—the little yellow shield with the screaming Eagle and a vague, stitched shape that is _supposed_ to be a rifle—and pretty much decides on her plan of action right there.

She grabs her helmet with her free hand and slips it on. Attaching itself against her collar with a magnetic snap, her OVERLAY flickers on, ready and waiting.

"Hey, listen." She calls through the mic, her voice coming out disturbed, mechanical and cold.

Cyrus struggles to look up.

"You trust me, right?" Vade asks. In the mirror, Cyrus' brows furrow and lower into a crease of either confusion or petulance. She knows him well enough now to know that it's probably a mixture of both.

And he replies in a voice low and strained with pain, but tainted with the entitled pissy frustration she's grown used to hearing. "What kind of a fucking question is that?" He demands, hurt—and not because of the .45 shaped nuisance embedded in his shoulder, either.

Vade leans backwards into her seat and, with one hand, grabs one of the three grenades rattling carelessly around on the passenger's. Then, with the full blown strength of a determined 'War Born, Fight To Die'—Or, more accurately, the concussive protection plates protecting her forearm and elbow—smashes the window open and rips the pin out, priming and then throwing it out with lazy toss.

"One you're going to regret answering, boy." She murmurs, watching in the rear-view mirror as the grenade itself vanishes under one of the cruisers perusing them. It explodes in a furious ball of hellfire, flipping upwards and slamming into the front of the one behind it. The screech of tires mixes within the chorus of other sounds, and Vade moves for the MP5A3 Machine Gun sitting on the floor, jerks the car into a sharp reverse and prepares to give them a serious what for.

 _Ee-yep._

"One you're bloody-damn going to regeret answering."

Cyrus looks at her as if she is crazy. Eyes the colour of unpolished brushed steel suddenly overwhelmed with an unmistakable cloud of concern. They meet the solid black visor of her helmet, almost pleading.

Vade shakes her head and sighs.

Jerking it open, she practically throws her stupid self out and behind the armoured car door, gripping her rifle hard.

"There's a briefcase on the floor before the back seat there, boy." She barks as she readies her MP5A3 with a satisfying little mechanical tick. More sequels of breaks. A tense wait. Then the click, click, _click_ of car doors opening. "You know what to do. Hand me one, and when I give you the go, get your ass into that treeline on the left there."

Now, it's Vade against God knows how many, on a highway with no cover aside from the dense forest one either side of them. Long odds. And while her prospects are significantly higher, being who she is, what she is, it still doesn't bode well.

A small little machine is thrown out of the driver's door onto the ground before her. Vade bends down to strap it to her inner arm. Unlike Cyrus, who was caught out in nothing but a suit, Vade's armour is built to fit machines like this; her OVERLAY picks up the connection and proclaims it successful. Right. That done.

Now, she waits only for Cyrus.

"Time to go!" Vade shouts, propelling herself out into the open and squeezing the trigger back with the furious, loud bark of machine gun fire.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"Shit. You okay?"

Slowly, Rose looks up from her bunk to see Cecily leaning against her locker. She blinks. "I've never been better."

"Really?" Cecily smirks. "So this his just how you treat every magazine?"

Rose had been methodically tearing into her Reader's Digest into confetti, page by page. Half of it was destroyed by the time Cecily had shown up. She dusted off her pant legs. "Nobody wants to know about 8 Annoying Chores With Unexpected Scientific Health Benefits," was her defense.

Cecily laughed and sat against the bunk closest to hers. "Congrats, by the way."

"For failing my test on Hannibal's Tactical Defeat at Cannae? I'm proud, I'm not gonna lie."

"I was thinking more of you coming second in PT today, but yeah, sure."

"Oh... thanks." Rose had completely forgotten about joining up on Class 1942's Track Team and coming second. Daniel Bonaventura had the honor of coming first—but with the way that kid ran, that was no surprise. Will had been there too, and had knocked up fourth on account of being tripped up by the twit that had come third. Everyone else was left looking more furious with Squad 6 than they had been before. Rose won't lie—she hadn't liked the way they had been looked at, but what could they do?

"Considering how it took you this long to even make it to practice, I'd call that an achievement." Cecily leans back against the mattress.

But she jolts up a few seconds afterwards when the south door is burst open, swinging wildly on it's hinges and slamming into the wall. Caesar, Lena and Jamie all come barreling in from what Rose assumes must have been their Advanced SDS Class. Only after a few seconds, it becomes clear that something has gone wrong. Caesar is shirtless, holding his bloodied white shirt to his nose. Lena meanwhile looks relatively unharmed, and Jamie's knuckles are scraped and raw. He's got a terrific black eye.

"What the Hell happened?" Franklin barks from the other side of the room, and Rose turns around just to see him throw himself off of his bunk and go storming over. It doesn't take them long to connect the dots. "Who did it?"

"Some cadets from SDS." Lena replies, and gives Franklin a cool, understanding look. They seem to be having a silent, telepathic conversation between themselves. "They ambushed us straight out of the locker room."

"Gave 'em a thrashing, I hope?" Frank growls as he grabs one of Jamie's hands to inspect. Lena smiles faintly. Frank tucks his chin up at Jamie. "Wash them under the shower."

Jamie grunts and slowly makes his way in that direction.

"Why not go to the infirmary?" Cecily speaks up, suddenly.

Frank glances over his shoulder. "Not if the other ones are there. No point risking another fight." He spins on his heels towards the door. "Lena, you're in charge for now. Someone help Caesar with his nose. When everyone gets back, tell them they're GTB until I return."

"Where you off to?" Rose frowns.

Frank grunts. "Mordechai. I'm going to see about changing our formation procedures."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"Come on. Up." Vade grunts, picking him up from under the arms and wrenching him along. "You're not going yet." She gripes. "I'm supposed to be the one dying first, you stupid prig. UP. Come ON!"

Rolling his red-rimmed eyes, Cyrus groans as he pushes himself onto his feet properly, leaning heavily against the shorter S.H.I.E.L.D. Hoplite beside him. "How conventionalist of you." He grumbles. Irritated. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Pennsylvania."

"Why? What the shit is here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?" Cyrus growls. Honestly, Vade doesn't blame him.

But, still.

Vade jabs him hard in the ribs, and he buckles, but because she's still got a python grip around his middle, he just flounders around helplessly as they disappear into the tall waves of trees and foliage.

"Do you want me to leave you here?" Vade snips. "Because after everything that's happened today, I don't give a flying crap if I'm following any gold-plated convention or not."

Okay, so that isn't true. _But_ , Vade thinks as she gives Cyrus a little more weight to lean himself on, he doesn't need to be told that.

Hell, after all. What are partners for?

 **[STALINGRAD]**

It turned out that the regular shipment of ingredients had fallen afoul of the regular schedule, so today's dinner for the entirety of the Academy was ration-based.

"You'll have to get used to it eventually," Mordechai had diplomatically replied when faced with Squad 6's protests. "It's either that or go hungry."

After getting slapped around by some of the larger cadets, nobody was in that much of a mood to do that, for sure. They all filed into the dinner hall in their new formation—three lines of six, as opposed to two lines of nine.

They called it food.

Sun-Li had heard them call it food.

But it was not. The mass on her plate did not relate to food in the least, except for the colours. It resembled nothing recognizable, as far as she could tell. Not even mystery-meatloaf. She'd had meatloaf on her third day here, and she abhorred it, but mystery-meatloaf was worse, and still just shy of this culinary travesty. In fact, mystery-meatloaf actually seemed preferable, as she prodded the protein-enriched, meat-like square on her plate.

 _That is not food. It's 'peat'. Protein-ated meat. I'll bet that's even the technical term for it: peat._

She looks around the table were she sits largely invisible, squashed between Gracie Brooks and Daniel Bonaventura. Gracie had yet to touch her meal. Daniel had refused, staunchly refused, to even pick up a plate. Sun-Li does not blame him. Nutritious and ever present it might be, but food it was not. It was certainly edible, despite appearances. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't starve or poison its cadets. But they might consider the morale-lowering effects of meals like this.

"What's the matter?" Sadie Castillo settled across from Sun-Li, carrying a tray containing the same not-food that was on everyone else's tray. She had to wonder at these plastic trays. They reminded her so vividly of the ones schools used, that she supposed the same company served both schools and the military.

How many days had she stared, not unlike she was doing now, at the school food, joking about the mashed potatoes doubling as industrial adhesives? Or hear about hamburger hockey games?

"I... D-Does this look like food to you?" She pointed with her spork. Who, besides public schools, used sporks? It was a sad thing to find high school memories repeating themselves in a S.H.I.E.L.D. chow hall. Sad as it was, it was almost funny.

Almost.

Saide shook her head before setting in. "You'll get used to it. It's not that bad."

Sun-Li watched as Sadie talked, shovelling down the not-food in between sentences. "It-t-... It doesn't even... _look_ like food." She announced bleakly, glad to share this sentiment.

"It'll be better, don't worry. Don't think about what it look like, you'll just make yourself sick. Dig in."

Sun-Li's stomach curled into a ball, quivering. Until Sadie pointed this out, she had not made correlations between the not-meat and certain other brown, somewhat lumpy substances.

"Guh!" she looked away, and at her note of horror, Daniel gave her a quick, sideways glance.

Sadie meanwhile sipped her drink, eyeing Sun-Li. The smaller cadet looked green around the gills, which made the purple shadows under her eyes stand out even more. She hadn't been sleeping well. Perhaps, Saide considered, they ought to cut Sun-Li some slack.

Anyone with eyes could tell Sun-Li was driven. But even driven people could find themselves nauseated, just looking at this food. Certainly the type to go far. By now, short time though it really was, Sadie felt she knew most of Sun-Li's habits. She followed orders, she went down to the firing range every day, she got her work done well, done right...

"You looked at that Tac essay, yet?" Sadie asked.

Sun-Li's eyes rose from the not-food. It smelled better than it looked, but after Sadie's last comment she could not bring herself to load up her spork and chow down. However, her stomach began to rumble.

"Course. I f-... -inished it with Finley and Reg this morning." Sun-Li crinkled her nose, a gesture she did not realize made her look much younger than she already was. It was something that she had worried about, back before she realised that Squad 6 was filled with the youngest, smallest looking cadets of all. However, no one seemed worried about anything, now, except that she do her job and do it competently.

Well, she'd do that. An unexpected wave of red-hot anger flare up, burning away all grief, worry and sadness. She dug her spork furiously into the not-food, heedless of what it was or was not, shoveling it down. She could not, she thought as she chewed, do her job if she were paying attention to the rumbling of her stomach. If she couldn't do her job, she'd never become competent if she wasn't competent, she would not be permitted to advance, and she meant to advance. She needed to make them proud.

She's not entirely sure who 'them' are just yet.

But she'll make them proud.

Saide watched Sun-Li shoveling down her lunch as though she had not eaten for a year.

When they all got up to leave, Daniel glanced once at Sun-Li's tray and his eyebrows shot upwards.

"How was lunch?" He jerked her chin at Sun-Li's tray.

Her eyes fell to her empty tray. Had she really just wolfed all that down? Her stomach jittered again, finally having mentally mentioned what exactly the not-food most resembled. She used several unflattering words for her carelessness in giving it a name, which only made the jittery nausea worse.

"It's still not real food." She tells him, clearly.

Daniel shrugs.

"Whateverya' say, Sunshine."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

He clambered out through the window, a small square rooftop confronting him. Perfectly flat, a single ceiling light rose up in the centre, while the next building over rose high above theirs, blocking the opposite end of the rooftop. On either exposed sides of the roof—facing the road and the rear—a two-foot high brick wall provided some measure of safety, but clearly not for the figure stood on top of the wall, facing out over the street, her hair blowing in the breeze.

On hearing Reg emerge—Ella grins and turned sharply, almost too sharply, arms out to steady herself as she saw the surprised expression Reg wore.

"Chicken out of jumping?" he asked.

"Worse ways to go, I suppose," she said.

Sat on the wall further along, Gracie snorts loudly. "I'd rather not go at all."

"We've all got to go sometime, kid."

Reg dumped the duffel he'd been sent to retrieve at his feet, rolling his shoulder. "I'd like to think that there's always an exception to the rule," his lip hitched up as he pondered.

"Ah, a dreamer."

"And you're a fatalist."

"And I'm, also, a summer Santa Claus." Ella grinned. "So how was breaking into the staff-room vending machines?"

"Tiresome." Reg admitted, and sighed. "I'm only doing this for you, y'know."

"Naw, listen to the widdle 'woy." Gracie coos and Reg waves her away. "Put it this way; it's for the good of the collective."

"Until the man they call _the Reaper_ figures out we stoke his keycard to get into the Administrative Mess, yeah."

"Speaking of," Ella raises a can of cherry soda. "Remind me to give Jamie a few extra bars. He deserves it."

"Christ, we all do." Gracie groans. "I swear to God, that Tac essay was brutal."

"You mean the Tac essay _I_ did for you," Reg deadpans as he accepts a can from Ella.

"Okay, Julius Caesar, we get it. There's no need to rub it in on the rest of us."

"Do you see me celebrating?"

Ella lets out a noise as she sits down on the wall. "Well, at least someone's putting it to good use. Congratu- _bloody_ -lations. You're about the first person that's worked all that madness out for themselves."

"See, I know what I'm talking about."

"Ah, but if that was true, you'd have known that the majority of suicides by jumping happen on places of significance or show. Sorry, but this place just doesn't cut it." Ella sighs. "Okay, let's take a look at the goods. We need to be back in five."

"Good," Reg grumbles. "Because if Father gets a report about me and several hundred cases of petty-theft, my S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy acceptance letter will be folded three-ways and shoved where the sun doesn't shine in ten seconds flat."

"From the other side of the country?" Ella grins again.

Reg smiles thinly. "He takes his paternal responsibilities _that_ seriously."

 **[STALINGRAD]**


	7. Day Six, 1129 HRS

**DAY SIX**  
 **1129 HRS**

He's got his headphones on the next morning, blasting _La bohème_ through the overpriced speakers. He's not so much of a nationalist as his music choices claim him to be—he's got a large range of Latin and Russian opera on his playlists, some classical too; and that's just for days like this. Usually he's listening to rock, but God forbid if that's going to do anything for him when he's on the verge of a waking nightmare. The kind that clings to a person with hazy images and cloudy fears even though it's impossible to remember what the dream itself was about, except every little detail is jumping out, again and again.

A few years ago, when he was first trying out for sports, his old coach had noticed this about him. Never blamed him for it, per say—but he blamed Daniel for not doing anything about it. _See someone_ , he had said. _Talk to someone about it._

And Daniel had just nodded. Nodded, did nothing about it, and just continued on running and avoiding the matter at hand, because that's what he does best.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had noticed the fact that he was angry, too. They'd mentioned it. Said that he could talk to someone about it there, if he'd so desired. But Daniel doesn't desire to. He knows he doesn't, because he's too lazy and too much of a coward to face the fact that, Christ, something is sure as heck wrong with him.

Because of the proximity to his adversaries, his anger had always been a cold, quiet sort. Now that he's half way across the country, far as he could possibly be, it burns.

Daniel is having a bad day today. When he just feel so damn furious that he could break his fists against a concrete wall. So he's got his headphones on in an attempt to both calm him and send off 'Don't Talk To Me' vibes. It's not always possible to predict, knowing wherever or not a day will be a bad one right off the bat, but apparently sometimes Daniel just wakes up knowing that it'll be a crappy day; it's an acquired ability, one he displayed well before he could sit upright by himself.

He's still thinking about it at dinner, however. Or, multiple 'its' that are all similar in one way or another, but each one prominent in their own, raw way.

Sun-Li, God love her, realises that something is up with him well before anyone else does, on account of her having sort of attached herself to him in recent days. Not that Daniel minds. He doesn't hate the company—Sun-Li is so... not there, sometimes, that Daniel doesn't notice her, half the time. She's a lot like Matthews in that respect; they just fade into the background until you need them, half the time. But Daniel must be doing something right. When Sun-Li speaks, she's notably a lot clearer than she is with others. Her words come out unstressed and whole; the stammer is practically gone, and Daniel is chuffed, he really is, but he's also fucking terrified about what that means, so he just keeps himself to himself regardless.

None of the other cadets will mess with her, anyway, if he's in close proximity. It's strange because he's not a fighter; if they got hold of him, he'd be in just as much as a situation as Sun-Li, but what they don't know won't kill them.

Unfortunately.

That's been happing more and more lately. The other cadets have seemed to realise that they can't fight Squad 6 when they're together—three bust-ups so far, most of them involving students in SDS—so those that are _really_ out for them, Squad 1 and 12 in particular, seek out singles or twos, in gangs of four to five, usually when they're moving between lessons. Nobody wants to think of what will happen if someone like Sun-Li, Reg or Finley got caught up like that. Reg can handle himself, sure; when Kirkland pitted him against some brute of a cadet in PT, he beat the relative crap out of them, but not if he's tanked by said massive cadet surplus three because he's Councilman Decker's sainted offspring; he's a fantastic fighter, yeah, but he's no miracle worker. None of them are. Finley meanwhile, well, he's certainly got something up his sleeve, that's for sure; they found some unconscious cadets on the pathology lab floor, and they're all rather certain who is to blame for that, but stick him in a close-quarter fistfight and he's as good as mincemeat.

Daniel doesn't even want to think about Sun-Li in that situation. So he doesn't. He just stabs at his peach cobbler with more violence than what is strictly required with the edge of his spoon.

They've just had Endurance Block; a lesson on small unit tactics in a building environment, which they have started being drilled in now that they are fairly well versed in the handling of firearms, and Daniel's forearms are still aching from having to hold up a rifle for so long. He's not a great shot, no. Nothing like what some of the more firearm orientated can dish out, but he's decent. Enough to dish out a good score. Shevchenko, Sadie and Sun-Li in particular, are some of the very best. Most of the cadets are a Marksman score. Managing to get between 70 to 79 in points per round on the range.

The Three S's, as Daniel has to think of them, are smashing the tables at 136-146. That is Expert grade. Those in the Squad who have some history of firearms, like Decker, Franklin and Lena, are managing good Marksman scores. Granted, a lot of the rest of the Class are between Marksman and Expert; Squad 6 seems far more kilted to physical combat and advanced academics than that of marksmanship and general espionage, but while those three have been bumped up onto a separate, advanced course in sharpshooting, it isn't until they're out on Endurance Block that it really shows. When it comes to Endurance lessons, getting thrown into a pseudo-live fire environment, it's less about simple marksmanship and more about combining all those firearm, tactical and physical skills to survive and succeed.

What really counts is how well a person can shoot when their targets are shooting back. Mordechai had been thrilled this morning after PT when the scores had been released to the respective SOs. They hadn't won in the end, no, but Squad 6 had certainly killed and damaged more than all the others.

They got caught out by a grenade in the end; all at once, suddenly and according to the statistics, would-be-violently. It's given Reg Decker something to think about that's for sure. He, Franklin and some other the other more tactically minded folk have been sat around his tablet working it out all morning.

Not just Reg it seems. Marlowe drops hard before him at the table and nearly gives Daniel a heart attack. She's smiling at him in a way he doesn't find too comfortable, but he knows better than to snap. Marley is a good enough sort. Spends most of her time with Lena, taking the edge off of the other's girls relative sharp, untrusting nature, but when Lena is knocking about with Franklin and Kimble on account of them being the only people out eighteen that knows how to handle a group properly, Marley is one of the "Goodfeels". People who go around making sure the little guys and the emotionally dead are getting along well and generally coping.

Daniel is quite swell at hiding his problems, but apparently not enough; she's giving him this deep, inquisitive look. He knows. She knows.

He shoves a spoon full of peach cobbler into his mouth.

At first, he's all like, _How the Hell and I going to mind-spin some Happytime tale in my head with this nightmare bottlenecking my brain?_ But then, he's like, _no, this might be good_. Clear his head with a completely different conversation.

Well, that is what he would consider doing anyway, if not for this tall, striking Agent coming in and ruining their afternoon. One second he's not there, and they're getting along, the next, much to the combined surprise of everyone at the table, he's appeared out of freaking nowhere tapping Reg on the shoulder and asking for a word. _Privately_.

Reg, being the kind of kid that he is, all generally chipper and accommodatable like, goes without a voice of protest.

Daniel swallows back a scowl. There's just something about little Reggie following behind that towering hulk of an Agent, like a stunned puppy on a lead, that makes him mighty uncomfortable. But Reg ain't his brother. He's a good kid sure, who never did anything against anyone, but it isn't Daniel's place.

Still. He's not happy about it.

"What the heck does he want?" Daniel blurts out, and from across the table, Ella and Gracie look suddenly quite ashamed of themselves. Then it clicks. They robbed some vending machines last night after the day's piss poor eats. Had certainly ramped up the morale, that is for sure. They even stashed the rest of it in the air vent that runs along the top of the roof for any future monster-meatloaf travesties.

"That's John Garret." Franklin murmurs and he and Caesar's face have gone sort of pale.

But he must know something nobody else does, because he's glancing at Sadie with a slight frown. Almost universally at once everyone who knows seems to come to the same conclusion. Reg has an older sister in the ranks. Some legendary proto-personal protection specialist who they all call Vade, half in parody of Vader, on account of the bulky black prototype body armour that was issued to a handful of Agents, who took a bullet for the big Fury himself a few years back. Apparently she just won't die; three confirmed hits and she's still out there catching bullets for suited sorts with death wishes. John Garret was her SO.

Honestly, Daniel hadn't taken the story to much heart at the time. After all, that badass S.H.I.E.L.D. folk legend being related to little baby Decker? Sharing the same genes? Nah. Daniel couldn't see it.

But he does see the way Reg returns, his lips pressed together and looking rather withdrawn. He picks up his tray from the table, dumps it at the trash area, and makes his way out without a single word on the matter.

"I'd leave it," Franklin grumbles. "If it's personal, it's personal. Besides. It might be above our Level."

Nobody dares contradict Frank on this; after all, they are S.H.I.E.L.D. now, and the ramifications of breaking rules are harsher.

Daniel spoons out another bite of cobbler.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **ONE DAY. FOUR HOURS. THIRTY-SIX MINUTES AGO.**

Through the branches and leaves, the breeze slowly sifted, mingling with the calls of birds to create a tuneless, halting melody. The sharp snap of a branch, the rustle of undergrowth interrupts the scene almost forcefully, and without due warning, Agent Johanna "Vade" Decker jumps out of a nearby underbrush between two large trunks, rifle pressed up against her shoulder, at the ready.

She scans the area quickly, half spinning to get a full 360 of the surrounding area before even _considering_ sending for Cyrus. But she needn't worry so much at the moment. They've been moving solidly for almost an hour, now. They're moving upwind from them. They left little to no tracks when they could help it. Moving in a ragged, awkward patterns that will hopefully confuse.

Quite frankly, she and Sager had been outnumbered at least ten to one. If they haven't found them now, they won't for a good long time. Not without help.

If they've got dogs, they could be tracked for miles, she knows. Cyrus' bleeding wound is more than enough of a sent for them to go by. It's one of the reasons why she stripped him of his blazer and threw him in the river half a mile back. Luckily it's a bloody warm July.

Lowering her machine gun, she trudges back to where Cyrus was leaning against a jagged rock and clasps his hand firmly, pulling him up. He lets out a hissing noise of pain, but he stopped bleeding awhile ago. Vade had torn off the sleeve of her undershirt and used it as a makeshift bandage. It'd have to do while they are on the move. Technically, she has everything she needs to deal with the wound strapped in a pouch to the underside of her left arm, but she'd really rather not do it out in the open.

Now at least, he's wearing her body armour. It looks awkward on his short, tubby form, but it's better than having just a thin slip of Italian silk between flesh and the cold metal of a bullet.

"C'mon," she grunts. "We'll find somewhere to settle you down. Get that wound sorted out."

Cyrus' brow lowers in thought. "My arm has stopped hurting. Don't rush yourself."

Vade doesn't mention that the reason for his arm having stopped hurting is because she'd doped him up on 2mg of S.H.I.E.L.D. modified dihydromorphinone.

They find a hollow underneath a towering, large trunked tree. The dirt had been dug away, and when Vade ducks down inside to get a better look, she realises that it smells faintly of animal. Nothing dangerous, judging by the remnants of fur—all animals are dangerous, of course, when disturbed, but when Vade plants her hand against the ground, it's cold and the fur is a soft orange. Foxes, probably. Place looks to be abandoned. For how long is hard to strictly tell.

"In here," she grumbled, grabbing him under the elbows and half leading, half pushing him inside. He takes up against the back corner. It's just big enough to accommodate his length. Width, not so much; Vade cannot adequately sit next to him without sticking her arm and leg out of the opening.

She opts for her leg, but keeps her arm half tucked along her chest. She can drape her rifle over her stomach and shoot out comfortably with her right hand from here if need be.

Hopefully, she won't need too.

"Right," she shifts along to grab her medical pack. From her top pocket on her flack, she removes a small torch and manages to jerk it in between two small roots above. Her rifle is pressed up by her feet. "Let's take a look at that shoulder."

The bullet is still in there, so Vade snaps on a pair of latex gloves and works on cleaning out the wound with hydrogen peroxide. Cyrus winces at the contact, but Vade is more willing to bet that it's because the stuff is cold to the touch rather than that of painful. She's been working with Cyrus for little more than a year now, and knows his usual responses to varying degrees of medical emergency; he is intolerant of injections, allergic to penicillin, and cannot handle burning sensations; he's more liable to pass out when scalded by hot water than by getting shot, go figure. At any rate it's actually a good thing. Vade only carries tablets, not injections; and Cyrus had been shot, not burned. Once the wound is clean, she can gauge or not wherever it is infected.

He hasn't got a temperature as far as she can tell; the wound is red, but not puffy or weeping. Looks like that Vancomycin did the trick.

Still. They're not in a situation where carelessness is advised. She'll give him another dose when she's finished.

Just in case.

It takes a bit of digging to get to the bullet. It's a bloody, uncomfortable affair that leaves Cyrus looking a little big green and Vade with a copious amount if blood running down her fingers and wrists, but in the end, the .45 is out and thrown into the nearby stream and Vade is wiping up the mess again, applying stitches and generally scowling her way through standard first aid procedure with as little fuss as possible.

"You did good, boy." Vade grunts, giving him a glance as she ditches the articles used in a biohazardous containment bag. "Not many folk can go through all that without complaining."

Not many folk are given _Tiloten_ either, but Cyrus seems to perk up at the comment, so she decides not to disclose that.

"But listen, we're close to a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility here; there's an Ops Academy nearby. I can't tell you wherever or not the people who attacked us are... there or not, but I need to scope it out. We can't stay out here for very long."

Cyrus frowns. "The Academy?"

"One of the facilities. They call it Pitch; my little brother is in his first year." She breathes in and considers their little hideout for a few seconds. "I don't want to drag him in here, but he might be our only shot."

"This is about the link I found between Councilmen Pierce and Malick, isn't it?" Cyrus murmurs after a minute or two of silence. "That's why... they..."

"You still got the evidence?"

"It's in my bag."

"And the rest of it?"

"Wiped it all just before I got shot."

Vade begrudgingly squeezes him on the good shoulder. "I know it's rough," she admits. "But you did good."

"Nobody will know, Deck." Cyrus grumbles. "They'll cover it up and label us as dead or just flat out traitors."

That is what Vade had been worried about. It's bad enough for Cyrus, but Vade is related to Councilman Decker himself; if Vade is compromised as a potential terrorist, it's likely he will be too. Perhaps not directly. It depends on wherever or not they see the Councilman as a big enough threat.

"Maybe we can get the word out at some point. But not now. You still need to go over what you actually found, of course, when you're healed up." She waves three sticks of silver packaged objects. "Time for a little chow."

Rations. Standard issue. the food in these things tastes a lot like the MREs the army gets, so there is a variety of stuff—from Cajun-style rice and beans to spaghetti to grilled chicken breast. Maybe some of that stuff is actually in the recipes. The one she happens to have resemble trail mix.

"I've only got three left," Vade explains. "I can get by on half a stick per day if I resort to extreme rationing protocols, but I highly doubt you'll kick it out. One full one might tide you until late evening, so you can either sleep off your medication and wait and eat it later so you're comfortable tonight, or eat it now and prepare to feel a little empty later on."

"Only two days?"

"I've got something up my sleeve, don't worry."

Literally, she thinks.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

As lessons in Strategic and Tactical Principles of Warfare dragged on, day after day, Reg Decker was starting to be filled with both optimism and despair. Optimism, because after the defeat in Endurance Block, Franklin and Josephine, with the aid of Reg himself, was now setting up a Squad that was almost infinitely adaptable. Despair, because when he tried to apply this to his lessons in Academic Block IV, his argument was considered invalid.

Of course, that was just work, so it wasn't as high in his priorities as the Squad 6's third place holding on the leaderboard in PT&END, but it still stung, to have to censor his own ideas for the benefit of a good grade.

Yes, he had a lot to learn from past leaders, soldiers and tacticians alike, but that doesn't mean that his own strategies should be considered obsolete. Surely.

After only a few practices, Franklin had, with Reg's advice, split the Squad into six fire teams of three, rather than three of six. They practice a lot in half-teams.

No one had ever fragmented an squad like that before. And it wasn't just an illusion. Franklin worked hard to make sure the leaders and seconds had plenty of leeway. He'd tell them their objective and let the leader decide how to achieve it. Or he'd group three fireteams together under the operational command of one of the leaders to handle one operation, while Reg himself commanded the smaller remaining force.

It was an extraordinary amount of delegation. And it worked.

Some of the cadets were critical at first. This particular incident started the morning before Reg had been approached by John Garret. As they were milling about the barracks, some of the other squad members talked about how they had practiced yesterday before, and how they would today.

Caesar was, for the most part, the most outspoken, and for someone who barely spoke on an ordinary day, that was saying something.

"Everyone knows that it's suicidal to divide yourselves."

"Divide and conquer?" Lena had proposed, Ceasar snorted.

"Only if you're on the losing side."

Reg was a little disgusted that the cadet with the highest rank after Franklin himself would say something disparaging about his squad-leader's strategy. Sure, Caesar was learning, too. But there's such a thing as insubordination.

"He hasn't divided the squad," said Reg. "He's just organized it. And there's no such thing as a rule of strategy that you can't break. The idea is to have your squad concentrated at the decisive point. Not to keep it huddled together all the time. That's how we lost last time."

Caesar glared at Reg. "Just cause you little guys can hear us doesn't mean you understand what we're talking about."

That got him. It really did. Reg rarely, if ever, lost his temper, but he's been fighting with his STPW teacher for what feels like forever and he needs to get it off his chest.

"If you don't want to believe me, think what you want. My talking isn't going to make you stupider than you already are."

Only what Reg conveniently forgot to remember is that Caesar himself has a temper too; he got socked yesterday, and has been looking for an outlet ever since. Caesar came at him, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the edge of his bunk.

At once, Josephine launched herself from her own bunk opposite and landed on Caesar's back, bumping his head into the front of Reg's own bunk. It did not take the rest of the cadets much longer. They pulled Caesar and Josephine apart—a fight that would not have lasted much longer regardless, as Caesar held an Expert Level 4 rank in Krav Maga.

"Forget it, Caesar." Will came forwards with the commotion. "Nobody picks on Little Reg, eh?" He'd picked up Academy Slang quicker than the others.

"What's the kid doing mouthing off?" demanded Caesar.

"You were being insubordinate toward our Squad-Leader," said Reg. "And you were also completely wrong. By your view, Lee and Jackson were idiots at Chancellorsville."

"He keeps doing it!"

"Are you so stupid you can't recognize the truth just because the person telling it to you is short?" Suddenly, Finley is there too. Anymore and Franklin will end up coming in from the showers.

Most of the cadets start arguing. All the frustration that had mounted over the past few days was spilling out.

But then, much to Reg's own surprise: "Come on, Ceaser," said Finley, frowning. "This is _Reginald_ _Decker_ , remember?"

And, to Reg's surprise, that silenced Caesar. Until this moment, Reg had not realized the power that his reputation had. He might be just a regular cadet in his squad but he was still the finest student of strategy and military history in the academy, and apparently everybody—or at least, everyone but his own STPW instructor—knew it.

"I should have spoken with more respect," Reg climbed off of his bunk.

"Damn right,"

"But so should you."

Caesar lunged against the grip of the cadets holding him.

"Talking about Franklin, your own friend," Reg pressed. "You spoke without respect. ' _Everybody knows it's suicidal to divide the squad_.'" He got Caesar's intonation almost exactly right. Several kids laughed. And, grudgingly, so did Ceasar.

"OK, right," said Caesar. "I was out of line." He turned to Jamie, who was holding him. "But I'm still a superior cadet."

A voice from the other end of the room. Franklin was leaning against his bunk, dressed naught in a towel. "Not when you're dragging a smaller agent off of his bunk, you're not." He called. "You're no better than the twits out in the other squads when you do that."

Reg had remembered that this afternoon when he went into lesson. Again, his decisions were called down as being too 'amateur' and 'out of the box'. Reg doesn't know if she is doing it deliberately to annoy him and provoke a reaction, like Kirkland, or that she's just so drilled into using S.H.I.E.L.D. military tactics that she can't see the other way, but damn it, he's annoyed.

He drudges through the hour and forty minute long lesson as obliged, and leaves before he can pick up the extra-credit assignments. He goes to the rec room for a bit.

He's approached by a girl with curly dark hair. Reg recognises her as one of the cadets in the above year. She's in his class, since Reg is working above his level, but she's never doing anything, really. Just scribbling things down all crazy like. She stood with a hip jutted to one side, looking at him for a moment, her right arm draped across her slender body, clasping the elbow opposite. Her head lolled down to one shoulder casting her bobbed hair onto the faded S.H.I.E.L.D. standard tee that was two sizes too big.

Her eyes were a weird kind of grey.

"First term of school is always the hardest," she smiles. Reg snorts. Without asking, she sits down next to him onto the sofa.

"Do I look that lost?"

"No, it was more the disappointed look on your face when Agent Davidson used James Owen's complete butchering of a strategy and not yours."

"Did Agent Davidson notice?"

"Well, you concealed it well." She sighs. "She's letting you know that you are going to have to earn your way into the battlefield and letting them know that she's going to ease you into the fold. There's thought in everything she does."

"She just seemed stuck in her ways to me."

"She's a very deliberate woman."

Reg thought for a moment. "Is that why she has you taking notes of her classes?"

"Why, because I couldn't possibly be a tactician like you?" She flounces.

Reg nearly chokes on thin air. "N-No! No, I just meant..." He can feel his neck getting unbearably hot. "No, I'm sorry, I... you're a... I... I hadn't..."

Much to his surprise, she suddenly starts laughing. Her laugh, loud and throaty, didn't seem to fit her. "Look at you." He head tips back, and for a second, Reg is actually just... "Oh my God, you're adorable. No, I'm not supposed to be in that class. I'm not even an Operations Cadet. I'm... I'm writing a story about the Pitch for the Daily Cadet. I'm in Communications; but I'm ahead of my grade."

Oh, well, that is something different. Reg looks at her a little more searchingly after that. "Oh, really?"

"Mmm." She laughs. "Yes, is that more surprising than being a tactician?

"Elizabeth Valentine?"

"Why, you pay attention, don't you?" Her eyebrow shoots upwards. Reg swallows. Hard. He feels like someone has punched him in the stomach.

"W... _Well_ , I just imagine that she's a very exciting person to talk to."

She laughs again. "Oh, she is." She gives him a long, hard look. "Yeah, especially when you take her out. So let's say Friday evening around 7:00."

And with that, she's bounding off again. Reg stares after her, completely and utterly dumbstruck, his Tac essay forgotten.

A pause, one second. Two. Three.

Reg looks down and his expression crumples.

"What the _FUCK_?"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Is it me, or is there a slight stench of HYDRA in the air? Welp. I went over my supposed chapter cap by one thousand, one hundred words, but it had to be done.

Now we're into the storyline proper, an idea of what is to come; the story arcs:

\- Main*  
\- Reg Decker's Relationship in regards to his sister, Elizabeth and his parents.  
\- Daniel and Franklin's continued rivalry.  
\- Daniel's issues in regards to past events w/ Lena.  
\- Lena's issues regarding the distrust of men w/ Marley, Finley and Franklin.  
\- Sadie Castillo's issues in regards to herself w/ Rose & Marley.  
\- Finley's integration into the group w/ Jamie and Josephine.  
\- Vade and Cyrus' continued investigation into S.H.I.E.L.D. and survival.*  
\- Caesar's decision in regards to future career and split from childhood friend Frank.  
\- Cecily's relationship with her mother w/ Reg Decker.  
\- Ata's decision to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. to pursue photography, her decisions to stay, etc.  
\- Ella's one-man prank war against Kirkland.  
\- Will's continued integration into the group setting, his determination to upface Ryan Patel - one of the cadets in Squad 12.  
\- Jamie's overcoming of Nan's death.  
\- Josephine's finding of her 'true' self.  
\- Franklin's attempts to unify the group against the violence/conflict of other squads.  
\- Gracie's potential acceptance into MIT; her continued relationship with her peers. Some computer crime may be involved.  
\- Nakano's developing ability to accept herself, flaws and all; relationship with her parents /w Sun-Li & Reg.  
\- Sun-Li's development as cadet. Her relationship with her mother after the incident /w Reg.  
\- Marley's coming to terms with her past regarding her foster-parents and Nick.

Obviously, there is a LOT here, so it will take to get round to them all, but expect to see small snippets here and there. The two '*' represent the two "main" plotlines. Like you may have noticed from the last two chapters, it will frequently swap from Vade and Cyrus to Squad 6.

For those who wish their character to develop romantic relationships, PM me. So far I have developed relationship arcs for Reg, Daniel, Franklin and Ata, but everyone else is free. It can either be with a Minor Oc, or one of the squadmates.

WOW OKAY I NEED TO END THIS. 5,582 word(s)

I'll be replying to Reviews, but there will now be something of a break until after Christmas. I have people coming round from Christmas Eve until Boxing day, so, no time to write.

\- Alfenide,  
Over and Out.


	8. Day Seven, 1510 HRS

**DAY 7**  
 **1510HRS**

See, Caesar only got a three-day suspension for his Beat-a-Dick Fiasco back behind the locker rooms with Jamie and Lena (Though Lena never got in trouble it turns out, on account of her comin' out unbloodied and just downright peachy) so he's at ASL that afternoon, again with Jamie and the additional appearance of Dannie-boy, because it turns out they all screwed up during High School and generally couldn't care much for academic work even if you went as far as to strap a bomb to it. Agent Lord—mole-nosed, broom-humping Good Witch wannabe—is dishing out a humdinger of a writing assignment. The ASS-ignment is to draft a letter to someone they have a beef with but ain't never had the nads to tell.

Funny thing is, half of these kids, if they've got beef, they'll let you know. Caesar's nose is all the evidence they need.

As are the three empty chairs.

Caesar has not a shittin' clue how this is supposed to prepare them for becoming qualified S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents, but whatever turns them on, he supposes.

"The letters are not going to be delivered, so you can write whatever you want." Agent Lord whisper-growls the word whatever like she's some highfalutin' street corner candy bar. Caesar smirks. _Oh, Henry! Sounds like she wants to Butterfinger my Thingamajig._ He wouldn't have believed it himself if her titillating tone hadn't tickled him a mischievous fancy in the you-know-what.

Hell, it ain't his fault. He's still an adolescent. Things happen. All he has to do is turn ninety degrees and he'll see that a lot of the guys in his class are having exactly the same issue. Well, apart from Jamie, but Caesar suspects that good ol' Jamie is more than at least seventy percent DI for Dead Inside.

'Course, Caesar doesn't mention that, 'cause he's seen Jamie fight and _hoo boy_ does that lad fight to the death. Caesar ain't aiming for a pile o' broken ribs to go with that prior face beating, thank you.

Daniel might, but he's half furious and twice as crazy, so—

"Your letter can be to anyone," Agent Lord says. "A parent, friend, relative. Even the president of the United States."

Caesar raises his hand from the back row. He's got his hearing-thingies in today, so he's doing good. Feels productive.

'Course, the matter if he will actually put this to good use in ASL or not remains to be seen.

Agent Lord flips him her usual Drop your hood if you expect to be called on finger twirl.

He flicks his hood off. "What about Attendants?"

Mademoiselle Lord peers over her granny glasses and squirts him a slippery hiss. "Even Attendants."

Actually, it's more like Eeehhven At-eeeennaannt- _sssss_ , Hangzlow Studmuffin. It's possible he imagined the _Hangzlow Studmuffin_ part, but not the slurpy mattress-tumbling tone.

She strolls to the front of the class and starts writing on the blackboard. "These are just ideas to help you get started. Dear Aunt Beatrice: About you chaperoning the Acadamy dance... Dear Uncle Garlic: About your breath..." Some of the girls giggle. Caesar frowns.

What kind of secret agent writes Agony Aunt letters to their supposed-not-quite-loved-ones? Caesar hasn't got any loved ones, well, apart from Frank in a way—he knows for sure that Jamie doesn't. In fact, the large percentage of those cadets here are orphans themselves. It's just what happens. Like the old fart bag said on James Bond one time: The best Agents _are_ orphans. S'why S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps a sneaky-sneaky eye out on the streets half the time, and in jails, and in orphanages.

Agent Lord taps the blackboard with the tip of her chalk. "Dear Dad: About me getting my own car... Dear Agent Martin: About me starting in the game on Saturday... Dear Little Brother: About you reading my diary..."

Thing is here in the Acadamy, doing shit work doesn't get you in trouble, but _not_ doing the work does. It's a strange ass concept that has to do with paperwork; not handing in any meaningful paperwork doesn't get you in trouble, much, but not doing so at all, does. Of course you can expect to be penalised in some other fashion for being a lazy ass piece o' turd, but that's the mentality they're trying to beat into people. They also want good grades, sure, but Agent Lord seems to be a bit of a realist here—she knows that a bunch o' hypermasculinized adolescent-lunatics aren't gonna want to sit around writing poetry. They wanna go out and shoot shit.

Caesar starts thinking about who to address his letter to. It's obvious this stupid assignment is nothing more than a trap to lure kids into skinny-dipping personal feelings they wouldn't otherwise flash, so he's pounding his mind muscle for something that will knock her lamebrained, acid-induced subterfuge off her medulla hippopotamus. He starts scribbling possibilities.

 _Yo Obama,_

 _Thanks._

 _Да здравствует Мать Россия!_  
 _Shevchenko_

...

No, too political.

And revealing.

...

 _Dear Agent Kirkland,_

 _If you went missing, would they put your picture on fruitcake cartons?_

 _Curiously,_  
 _Shevchenko._

...

No, too sexual.

And revealing.

...

 _Dear Director Fury,_

 _You sent my best friend's parents to kill my parents when I was eight. And it's all your fault._

 _Sorry,_  
 _Shevchenko._

 _..._

Nah, too personal.

And revealing.

From the chair across, Daniel takes his paper and slides it over to him. Caesar isn't much good with English at times, but heck, it doesn't take much knowledge of the good 'ol Empire to figure this little nugget out.

 _Dear Life,_

 _You suck. I want out._

 _See you on the flip-side,_  
 _Bonaventura_.

"Cripe. Dy'wanna go n' get flagged as a statistic?" Caesar snorts and Daniel shrugs.

"If they haven't figured out that we crazier than a sack of rabid weasels, Bicho. I don't know wadda' tell you." Daniel replies. He's picked up on Academy Slang real quick-like. They all have, actually. The folks at the Triskelion are gonna have a field day training them out of this.

Jamie smirks.

On the way out of class, Jamie, Caesar and the Suicidal One all stealthily slide their letters onto Ye Almighty Lord's desk like it's a ticking time bomb, which in a way it is.

Should make for some interesting fireworks next lesson, at any rate.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

She should've fuckin' seen it.

She really should.

Jesus Christ, she really is a fucking idiot.

The barrel is hard against her skull, and she can feel it hammering against her scalp as the agent pushes down repeatedly, but God, that's not the worst part.

 _Please God, tell me they haven't found Cyrus._

"Up." The Agent growls. "Get up."

Vade complies.

After all, she's surrounded.

What else can she do?

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Squad 6 had only been practising for a week when Agent Azoulayn came into the barracks only a few minutes after they all filed in for personal time, brandishing a page of paper and wearing what S.H.I.E.L.D. Military tends to call Full Regs; a standard black and white suit. He didn't say anything until he got over to the very end of the room, were Franklin's bunk was. He handed the cadet the slip of paper as he turned to the rest of them. They knew what it was. Assignment. They had an assignment. And they'd be doing it after lights out.

Assignments were the big thing at the Academy. Even bigger than the scores in Endurance. They were never the same, but the circumstances often were. Squad against Squad, or Squad against S.H.I.E.L.D., and generally with some form of objective. It was the Assignments that made Cadets into Agents, and Agents pick out prospective cadets for further training.

A cadet could flunk everything and still get a shot at a good SO if they performed exceptionally well during Assignments.

It's this method of thinking that the Attendants and Instructors try to water down, but it's nothing short of the truth. They know it, and the cadets know it. Do well and good things come your way.

"Your assignment is as follows," Agent Azoulayn calls. "At some point during the evening after lights out, you will hear the campus alarm sound three times. This is what we like to call the Assignment Siren. You have experienced a Fire and Emergency alarm; it is continuous, unlike the Assignment Alarm. If it _is_ continuous, you know what to do, but I don't expect such to be the case." He walks down the squad bay, giving each one of them a look as he passes. "Once the alarm goes off, you and your squadmates will undertake your mission. Due to the circumstances of today's mission, you are strictly prohibited from moving out on procedures before the siren. This ban excludes the accumulation of required materials. So if you want to go and grab some gear from the armoury, I'd get to it as soon as you can. You _are_ however forbidden to act out on any further mission operations until the siren goes off." He glares. "And don't get cocky—if you so much as make one move, I will personally fail you and if not kick you out of the program for failing to concede with orders, let the opposite teams continue on with their merry little way. I _will_ know, and so will the other Instructors."

He sets his hands behind his back. "You will notice, cadets, that when you enter your lockers that your FR-100's have been removed and replaced with a Hungarian-made AK-M assault rifle." Along the room, faces turned into concern and surprise. "Your handguns have also been replaced, and your knives have been removed. After the assignment has finished, you must return to the armoury and sign-in. You will have your weapons returned to you."

Agent Azoylayn pauses for a moment.

"Three years ago, I was parachuting into Northwest Syria as part of a response team working with Agent Hand on an artefact case that had gone ugly. I had a dropbox filled with weapons and equipment that landed in a combat zone. When parachuting, you only take so much; I had the clothing on my back, my handgun and a small backpack. Everything else I needed for my mission was shelled to pieces in less than thirty minutes after my arrival." Agent Azoulayn eyes them all again. "Here, you have been spoilt. Your equipment is well made and you have been taught how to maintain it, with the necessary items on hand at all times. Out there in the real world, it doesn't work that way. You can expect equipment to not turn up, for it to be damaged, or to be send into situations where external help is a risk your superiors are not willing to take." He starts walking towards the front of the bunk room. "We try to emulate those circumstances as often as possible here at the Acadamy, and the longer you are here, the harder this will become. You will expected to use weapons you are unfamiliar with, with weapons that are damaged, or to operate with no weapons at all. This is just a simple fact."

He spins around to face them again, and his face turns blank. "Now for your assignment. Cadet Faulkner will provide you with the details, but I will give you a brief overlay. Your target is Squad 12. Your mission, cadets, is to strike their Base, which is their barracks, by any means necessary." Very briefly, a small smile crosses over his mouth. "This can be done in any number of ways; last year, my Squad flooded their target and the year before, they placed dye inside the showerheads. Now before you all go scheming, please remember that you are forbidden from causing severe structural damage and, or, setting fire to any buildings. Life-threatening operations are strictly prohibited, so no killing your fellow cadets, either. Deliberately or otherwise."

"A word of advice. One Squad out there will have your designation on it. This is fact. There will be a squad, out there, somewhere, waiting to do something to your base. Do not go all out on this blindly. Think about it. Think about it like a real wargame. You will be attacked, and if your enemy is proficient, they will also likely be defending."

"You will all be wearing tracking devices fitted with emergency buttons. That means I know where you are at all times and I can come and find you and pluck you out if you break the rules, or if there's an accident. There are also surveillance cameras throughout the compound. A siren will go off to signal the end of the exercise, or if we need to suspend the exercise while we deal with an emergency. Also, you can't remove anyone's protective clothing, use physical torture, shoot your weapons at targets less than three metres away."

"You will all be armed with the latest in combat simulation technology. It's a system of synthetic ammunition that was designed for training the United States Marines. Your rifles and handguns are filled with this. This ammunition has been designed to provide the most realistic combat training you can get, short of actually letting you fire live bullets at one another."

"Because of the power of these simulated rounds, you'll each have to wear helmets and full body armour," Agent Azoulayn explained. "Do not remove them unless you absolutely have to. You will be provided with special water canisters with straws that can pass through your visors. If you need to urinate, make sure you're in a safe position and get one of your squadmates to cover you in the bathrooms. This is, essentially, a war; you can get shot at any time by any other squads, regardless if you are hunting them or they are hunting you. After all, nobody apart from you know who you are targeting—surely it is better to be safe than that of sorry. There is a serious risk of being blinded, so you must keep your helmets and visors in place at all times. Any questions?"

Finley raised his hand.

"Permission to speak, Cadet Powell."

"Sir, what are the rules if we get hit? Do we have to lie dead for ten minutes or something?"

"The underlying principle behind this new generation of simulated ammunition is simple: if trainees are scared of getting shot by something painful, they will act in a fashion similar to how they would act in a live combat zone. There are no fancy electronics telling you where you've been shot, or regulations saying how long you've got to lie down on the ground. The rules are very simple: if you get shot, it hurts like hell."

Everybody laughed, but they were also nervous. As a new squad, with only a handful of veterans, they didn't actually expect to win, but they didn't want to be humiliated, either.

"Any further questions?" Silence. "I will now remove myself from the Cadet Authorized Zone and sit down in a nice air conditioned mission control building. Once I leave that door, the only time you will be seeing me again is when the assignment is over, or if one of you is hurt or in need of a good chewing out. Good luck."

Once the door clanged shut, all the eyes diverted to that of Franklin.

"Well," he rolled his jaw and stepped in between the bunks in the squad bay. "Anyone have any ideas?"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"It's Squad 12," Will sat on the end of his bed. "I sure as hell want to do something nasty, that's for sure."

"We can expect them to want to do the same," Nakano spoke up. "We should consider that."

"I agree," Reg walked out with his hands in his pockets. "Rukiyat Ryzaev is in charge of that squad, right? He set those cadets on Caesar and Jamie a few days ago. From what I gather, half of his squad are terrified of him."

Franklin nodded. "He's pre-Operations. His parents are Agents, too. Or just his mother, now. He's got some honor thing in winning; that's why he's so aggressive. He has to win."

"He hasn't been winning. He's in fifth." Caesar grumbles from his bunk, lay back in nothing at all, classic Military style. "The Badger's got _that_ honour."

"God knows how." Josephine screwed her face up.

Caesar and Franklin share a conspiratorial look. When Josephine turns to regard Franklin properly, eyebrows raised, he sets the paper down on the bunk beside him and works on lacing up his boots.

"The Badger's real name is John Caverly. We've known him for... what, five years?" He glances back at Caesar.

The shorter male grunts. "Он присоединился к нашей школы во время шестой класс."

Franklin nodded. "And in that time, he's never failed an Assignment. Ever. That scoreboard isn't a mistake. I don't know how he does it but even his Rec list is glowing."

"Rec list?"

"Recommendations." Lena Tarasova says, suddenly. "You each have a file recommending you. It's got your whole operations history, academy history and original test scores, and some other information that might be important when considering missions. Wherever or not it actually recommends you depends on what's being said about you." She glances pointedly at Franklin. "I guess this Badger's own list is flourishing."

"The son of two prominent agents who effortlessly operated within Siberia for nigh on thirty years, who performs well in all assignments and assessments regardless or not if he actually bothers? Of _course_ , he does." Franklin nearly groans. "Me, Caesar, him, Tom, Rukiyat, Yusuf and another kid called Eames go way back—out of around, what, thirty original kids we're the ones Pre-Operations drafted out to the Pitch. The Badger, Rukiyat and Eames are the most significant, though. If either of them three have us, we're in trouble."

"D'ya think 12 will have? Who's the leader of 1?"

"One? Yusuf, but he'll ice, I think. He can't control his squad. Neh, they crazy, bicho. One-Zero-Zero-Tolo."

"Rukiyat?"

"Like Decker said," Franklin nods. "He gotta' strong grip on his squad." He frowns. "Hutzpa', You've seen him, he _tall_ , Gahba. I don't blame 'em for being terrified of him."

Caesar calls from his bunk. "In 'dis army, we speak 'de _Acadaramo_."

Franklin grins.

"Okay, we need a plan. We've got twelve, we need to do something, something good. I read the list. We need to successfully enter the inside of the barracks and perform some sort of act, while defending our own, in order to win. We get points for the following: the successful implementation of reconnaissance and operations skills, successful winning confrontations with other cadets, and the defence of our own barracks."

"Have you ever done this before?" Cicely asks.

Franklin shrugs. "Technically, yeah. Only ours was with paintballs in an old Army Ranger's base." He thinks for a moment. "I'm willing to bet that it'll be a slaughtering. It's easier to attack other cadets and get them beaten down before attacking a barracks. So prepared to get attacked when you go out."

"We should have a diversion," Reg states. "The'll be after us. I mean, we're not exactly, uh, formidable in the battlefield. Good with marksmanship, though. Perhaps we should get someone on the roof."

"Sun-Li? Sadie?"

Sadie nods. "I don't think I can snipe with a handgun, though."

"Run off to the armoury with Sun and get a pair of rifles. They issued us all with firearms, but that doesn't mean we can't use our own. Just not the FR-100s." Franklin nods. "Цезарь, you grab your AK-M and with Kahala, Tarasova, Captial and Bonaventura get geared up. You'll be our diversion. Head out with Brooks and Astrof, who will help protect Finley in executing our attack, but split if you get spotted. Brooks, Astof and Finley should get there scot free providing they don't run into anything." He turns to look around the barracks. "Everyone else, you're our defence. You're our close quarters specialists, so when they arrive—and they will, you will stop them in their tracks. Hopefully, Sun and Saide will be able to stop them in time, but..." he shrugs as if to say ' _well, what can you do?_ '.

Finley frowns. "What about me?"

Franklin's grin returns. "You, with your freaky genius brain, have exactly thirty minutes to whip up something nasty."

A pause.

Something crosses over Finley's face.

"I've got _just_ the thing."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"Before we begin, has anyone got a knife?"

No. Apparently not. But then, she doesn't strictly expect them to bring a knife to a gun fight. None of that really matters, though. One against five. Long odds.

For someone of the ordinary sort, anyway.

Capped knee or otherwise, she's on the first of them no sooner then she's slipped from the handcuffs. Spinning on the back of her heels, she slams the front of her forehead straight into the agent behind her, stunning him as she sent a curled first into the stomach.

Helmet, then. Vade grabs that with the suppressed speed of someone living for this sort of dig, and sends her left impact concussive plated kneecap straight into the agent's nose.

A sickening crunch, the squirt of wet liquids and she imagine cartilages snapping and jerking straight into the brain.

 _Easy peasy_.

She grabs the hooks on the guard's flak and sends the his corpse bodily behind her for monumental cover.

Next one.

She picked the target. Right in front of her, or behind her at first, so he had seen the whole thing. He's ready to bring his handgun upwards. .45 too. They're all armed the same.

First a .45 to the shoulder and now to the knee? These people need to pack better hardware.

Pity. She punches straight in the throat first, her other arm darting to the left and grabbing the arm holding the offending handgun and, once she was finished with the throat—paralysed vocal cords, makes the next bit slightly easier for the both of them—she breaks it nice and even. This one, blonde and blue eyed, makes to scream. Nothing comes barking out of his poor, _poor_ stunned crippled throat aside from a gasping whisper. Vade grabs his handgun and shoots him plain and straight. It's not silenced. Well.

 _Ah_ , what the hell.

Next.

The three agents up at the front, half turning in surprise at first, now know for sure. Then there is the bullet. She's not wearing her right kneepad. I'd fallen off in the original skirmish.

The feeling of getting shot through the knee is not an enjoyable one, no, but pain is also abstract. Concentrate on survival. Or channel it back effectively. That way one can fight for longer. Or even better.

Vade is a very angry person by nature. Her biological father's trait. One can probably guess her method of coping.

Feeling the sour, bright burning sensation of metal cutting straight through skin and into muscle, Vade snarls and uses the guard she capped in the face as a meatshield, eyes snapping to the wound in between the motions of sidestepping behind and raising the handgun under the corpse's arm. Bloody. Defiantly. The bad kind that only gets worse and does so fairly quickly. She can barely feel it now. It's nigh on cold.

Better speed things up then.

She shoots off the entire magazine uncoordinated and lazy to scatter them, and when she gets along further, releases the corpse and slides her hand around the back of their belt, wrenching the majority of his weight upwards a few inches so when she sends out the strong, blunt force of a Warborn's kick straight at their lower back, they travel. The dead weight is jerked forwards into one of the Agents who is shooting. She releases the magazine, sends her palm out, and sends that towards them too. Drops the handgun. Changes target.

No time for reloading, they realise. They grab for their knives.

 _Here they go_. A wide grin of intense delight. Pivoting, Vade directs a wild flying kick at the one on the left, the base of her boot slamming into the baton and sending it spinning widely into the wall nearest. Other foot. She braces herself and kicks off of the three with her right, then changes to her dominant again and sends her booted foot between his collarbones. Drop. Roll, and she's up again and blocking a hefty knife swing with her right forearm. The impact is fierce, a spark from two armoured forearms connecting hard bursting around her plated elbow. _Think, think_. The one she knocked to the floor with the corpse is getting back up.

He's probably still got a magazine spare.

Another swing. Vade jumps and braces her feet on either side of the two trees, bouncing off as the knife flies between her legs and sends a cross right with her foot. He flies into the wall.

The one with the gun... Vade turns sharply, drops again and feeling the jutting pain in her knee with grin displeasure and scooping up the knife on the floor. Gathering her body weight, she slams him into the wall when he just about manages to get up onto his feet.

"Sorry." She murmurers, and rams it up against the back of his neck, just under the rim of his helmet, and... _Well_... Vade waits three seconds and then rips free his handgun. The little holoscreen flickers up with the confirmation of a new user, six bullets out of a possible nine.

Standing upright and unassisted, she swings her arm over and shoots one of them dead. The Agent collapsed with a sucking, bubbling neck wound.

That's... _four_? Vade frowns, eyebrows bunching together with the miscount and spins on her heals.

Oh. Right. That one.

He's trying to limp his way down the little path. Vade powers on after him. At the thumping sounds of her boots, he tries to hobble away faster. Vade isn't too sure how he managed to go and get injured like that, though. Unless one of them missed and—... Ah. Well. So much for professionalism. It doesn't really matter anyway.

When she gets within arms reach, she slaps his helmet off with a dissatisfied sigh, following that movement with a sharp, quick squeeze of the trigger.

"No." She grunts, tossing the handgun next to him with a lazy flip of the hand. "You need to stay here."

And with that, she turns around again, considering her bleeding knee and setting her mouth into a grim line. The agent who had been at the front, SALVIAN, the name-tag suggests, had been carrying her gear when they found her. She takes it back. His sleeve is showing, so she rips that off and wraps it right around the wound. It hurts.

It hurts _really_ bad.

She hopes to god Cyrus has steady hands, because after that fight, she doesn't think she can trust herself to stitch this shit up.

 _Just another day in the office_ , she thinks bitterly as she hobbles back in the direction of their hideout. _Just another day at the office._

 **[STALINGRAD]**

They all had ways of dealing with the nerves—Lena watched them from her bunk. Some of them became silent, others talkative. Some joked and bantered, others turned surly. Some just lay back down on their bunks and closed their eyes.

Lena just watched them. She tried to remember if the kids back in the Red Room ever did these things, and then she realized: they were surviving, not afraid of being shamed. You don't get this kind of fear until you are sure you will live. So it was the adults who felt like these kids, afraid of humiliation but not of death. And sure enough, the adults standing around in line showed all these attitudes. They were always performing, always aware of others watching them. Fearful they would have to fight; eager for it, too.

 _What do I feel?_

 _What's wrong with me that I have to think about it to know?_

 _Oh ... I'm just sitting here, watching. I'm one of those._

She noticed, though. All the time. She'd noticed how thigs had changed, even though it had only been a week. Reg had grown taller, for instance; she doubted if anyone else would notice how he'd grown, but she was aware of how his arms and legs were longer. He could reach things more easily. Didn't have to jump so often just to do normal things like jumping up onto his bunk. She'd seen him with an armful of new clothing a few days ago.

 _I've changed_ , she thought. _The way I think._

Castellio was still lying in bed with her pillow over her head. Everybody had their own way of coping.

She put the thought out of her mind, or tried to. This wasn't a competition. There was room for two great people in the world at the same time. Lee and Grant were contemporaries, fought against each other. Bismarck and Disraeli. Napoleon and Wellington.

Did she even want to be great? She's not sure. She could do anything, now. Why else would they have done what they have done, if she wasn't going to be great?

Franklin waved a hand in front of her face.

She tensed. She tensed at the sight of him, at the realisation of their distance. She tensed, and she's pretty sure he can see her doing it, too.

"I'm sorry. I... was thinking of something else..."

"Everybody's nervous before their first Assignment."

Lena hated that. To have Franklin see her doing something stupid. Not remembering an order—she remembered everything. It just hadn't registered. And now he was patronizing her. _Everybody's nervous_!

She opened her mouth to say anything, but he didn't stay; he was going, half dressed, towards the showers. Marley dropped off her bunk to speak to her. "Too bad about your headache," she said.

"What?"

"I told Franklin about how you were up with a banging headache in the night. That's why you had to go to the bathroom. You were sick, but you didn't want to tell him because you didn't want to drag the team down."

"That's not true,"

"No, but it's better than... _this_." She waved a hand at her. "What's up? Come on, you can do this."

"What's wrong with me? I'm _better_ than this."

"Sure you are. You've proven that. But you know what I think? You're afraid that you'll turn out to be just a kid. Well, here's a clue: You are a kid."

"So are you."

"So it's okay to be really bad. Isn't that what you keep telling me?" She laughed. "Come on, if I can do it, bad as I am, so can you."

Cold and sweating—a combination she wouldn't have thought possible, she puckered her forehead.

It's the Red Room all over again. She thinks. A bunch of kids forced together against a larger opponent. Again and again, excellent to perfect, or you suffer. She had grown to that challenge. She had thought.

 _So why do I feel like I've started all over again?_

"Thanks for keeping me from being a liar," Marlowe laughed.

"What?"

"About your having a headache."

"For you, I'd grow a brain tumour." Lena forces a small smile.

"Now _that's_ friendship."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Regarding the fight with Vade, I remember yonks ago, when my father broke his knee while out camping. We were miles on a hike; he was that doped up on his own adrenaline rush that he did not properly realise until we got half way back. That incident gives me nightmares sometimes, but it's a reflection of what the mind can do when it comes to pain. Realistically, a normal person wouldn't be able to fight like that while injured, but Vade is a competent specialist. She will, however, have made the injury much worse.

For those people who contacted me in regards to pairing, I'll have a list out soon. It's just a matter of planning.

OH SNAP QUICK UPDATE

So I have this other OC named Zachariah Nathan. You might recognise the surname. There'll be a fic by the name of Bandogge Day with tie-ins to STALINGRAD involving him at some point, and since I'll be concentrating on that too, there'll be a delay here. Hope you don't mind.

Drop by though, reviews are always welcome. I don't get better without feedback! Infomation is on my bio, same as always.


	9. Day Seven, 2124 HRS

**DAY 7**  
 **2124HRS**

It turns out, the greatest skill of a bodyguard is not, as many would expect, the capacity to which they can take bullets or kick ass, or how well they resemble a truck with their musculature.

Oh no, the mark of a true professional is the ability to go hours on end without taking a piss.

After all, you can't just bugger off whenever nature calls and leave your charge as exposed as a flasher's blue balls. A bodyguard, a good one, doesn't ever leave the Principal's side, unless there is another suitable candidate who can babysit within range. Which is tricky for Vade, on the run in a forest or otherwise. Not because there aren't able candidates in her circle; it's just that none of them are willing. Cyrus Sager is infamous in the Hoplite circles for being more of a pain in the ass than advanced prostate cancer. He barely listens to Vade on a good day, let alone a bad one, and with everyone else, his passive-aggressive nasty streak is intensified by about 300%.

See, the kid doesn't hate Vade, despite all they've gone through. Not on what Vade tends to call the 'Sager scale'. If anything, Vade would just say that they've gotten used to each other over time. Two assholes watching each other's back for the sake of not having anyone else to have watch over them.

It means that Vade, half crippled to the point of not being able to put much, if any, weight on her left side at all, has some liberty to cut some slack. Not much, but just enough. She's been with Cyrus long enough now, just over three years, that she can trust him to do more than _just_ get shot at.

During the fight, they had taken to Vade to a facility just north of here. She is certain by this point that it's the Acadamy facility. There really can't be anything else here. They also hadn't made it before Vade had attacked; Vade had to gauge the area before she made her escape, and then, make her escape before they were properly identified by anyone within the walls. There's a trick to it; playing docile before you pounce, and this time, it seems to have paid off. She had stuck around long enough to notice a small little building along the south-eastern wall. It looked like some sort of maintenance building.

It was perfect, in a way. Depending on how safe it was, if they could get to it without being seen, they could sit right under the nose of S.H.I.E.L.D. while they figured out their next move.

Vade has no way of really knowing, but from past experience, she's sure that S.H.I.E.L.D., or whoever the fuck it was who was pursuing them, will be expecting them to move further away from the facility than go near it. It's common sense. Unfortunately for them, common sense is not something Vade tends to excel in, on general principle. It gives Cyrus and her a good opening to try and get a few steps ahead.

Hopefully for the duration, this time; they're both injured, after all. Vade severely, in terms of capabilities. Injured and exhausted, and generally just sick and tired of jumping at shadows and constantly being on their guard. They need somewhere where they won't be disturbed long-term.

That's assuming that they've realised that Vade has been spooked in the first place. By the time she got back to the bodies, almost a three hours later, she found them undisturbed. Nobody had come to collect them, or otherwise ventured anywhere near where the fight happened. It makes her wonder, idly, if the forces stalking them are smaller than she first expected, or in a requirement of as much secrecy when operating as Vade and Cyrus.

At any rate, Vade doesn't want to risk wasting time they no longer have. When night falls and the surrounding forest is surrounded in a thick cover of darkness, she wakes up a grumpy, now near-starving Cyrus to make their next move.

"I've got a cheap pay-as-you-go for emergencies," She explains, half groaning when she moves her leg further out of the hole so climbing out is less of a painful experience as it had been last time. "I don't know if they'll be tracking it, whoever it is, but I've got to contact someone, somewhere. Hopefully with that GOPHER-REV4 tech, we should be able to prevent people from tracking us. Just in case, I'll make the call further away, take it apart and strap it to a grenade dummy. Fire it across the flipping forest."

Cyrus snorts and rolls his eyes. "The simple methods always the best, hn?"

"Hey, fuck you, fruitloops. Not everyone went to Communications Acadamy." Vade grumbles as she leaves the hole, rifle at the ready and scrambling awkwardly to her feet... Or, well, _foot_ , as it were. Once they're out and Cyrus has stretched, Vade slings her rifle over her shoulder with one lazy motion. It might seem borderline on careless, but to Vade, it was a seemingly spontaneous hallmark of muscle memory; the firearm swings over her shoulder on its strap, the length of it deliberately sending it colliding into her shoulderblade, were the magnets on her back secure it in place. "Right. BA check." She says, automatically slipping into her 'do it and no bitching' tone.

Cyrus smirks condescendingly. "Since you asked so nicely." He snipes, swaggering on over like the self-entitled douche he is.

A BA, or BodyArmour, check can look a little like a groping-fest if a person is not professional about it. And Cyrus has this creepy habit of watching Vade unblinkingly while she does it. Still, Vade is qualified (sorta... she has a Master's diploma in Badassery) professional, so she pats him down and readjusts the moulded Kevlar and tightens the straps with only slightly more force than is strictly necessary. This armour, they hadn't come down with; they hadn't had time to get it out of the car before it imploded, but one of the folks who attacked Vade earlier that day was a rough enough size. A bit taller, but since Cyrus is still quite round around the middle, it worked well in their favour. Better to be slightly too long than too tight.

And it was certainly better than nothing. Vade is willing to take anything they can get at this point.

"Armed?" She asks, and he rolls his eyes "Safety on?"

"No, I thought I'd shoot my own balls off for a fucking kick in the interval." He hisses, sarcasm dripping heavier than congealed treacle. Vade raises her eyebrows and smacks a fist into his sternum-shield. Hard. 'Testing the goods', and smiling sweetly when he glares at her sharply.

"No need to get sarky about it, fucknugget."

From what Vade can gauge, it's the same kind of body armour a lot of agents and specialists use while on the field; not the thick, borderline near-spacesuit armour some S.H.I.E.L.D. Military use. Four of the agents who attacked Vade were wearing the military types. Bloody good pieces of equipment, but heavy and cumbersome and downright uncomfortable to anyone who hasn't trained with a set for a longer period of time. The variant Vade had found on the supposed leader of that little strike team had the thinner variant; it was clearly top of the range, but no amount of Kevlar can cover a person all over. That'd be ridiculous, they'd look like Iron Man.

Honestly, Vade would be more comfortable if Cyrus just went around wearing a freakin' motorcycle helmet and a bullet-proof lycra bodysuit everywhere, but... Vade doesn't like reminding him just how abnormal he is (not that he minds that, self-important asshole) for phycological reasons. It's hard to constantly be on the job, and Vade knows how much stress it puts on someone when during the few small times they get some downtime, they're still at a big enough threat that they have to have a bodyguard with them regardless. Her step-father still suffers from it and he's had bodyguards for over ten years now. Still. The motorcycle helmet isn't too necessary. Cyrus is so thickheaded Vade is pretty sure bullets would bounce off his self-satisfied arrogant skull.

Smugness is pretty damn impenetrable.

Cyrus was safer, yes, but he wasn't completely protected. That is where Vade comes in. With her armour, she very nearly was; and while she'd had to forgo the protection on her left leg due to the injury, she was fairly confident that if bullets started flying, the stupid twit would at least be okay.

And this isn't just paranoia, here. Vade has lived long enough in S.H.I.E.L.D. to know that one thing never changes.

The bullets will always, at some point, start flying.

 _Better wear that helmet, comrade._

After that depressing moment of contemplation, Vade sighs. "Right." She mumbles, slipping one of the handguns she nicked from the dead agents into her hands. "Let's get going, gundaro."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

They stand in the darkness, rifles tucked against their chests.

A moment of silence.

A crackle of the radio.

Franklin rolls his head to each side, stretching the muscles in his neck. "Athos." He half-growls, staring through the door into the night beyond, considering. He turns on his heels once he's certain, regarding the seemingly empty barracks. "Alpha, check."

"Copy. Alpha, Check." Through the radio, the sound of Reg Decker's voice replies almost immediately.

"Bravo, Check."

Daniel Bonaventura. A huffed sigh. "Bravo, check. Captian Crapsack."

Franklin doesn't rise to the bait. "Charlie, Check."

"Charlie, Check." Saide follows up. She's right next to him, Franklin knows, but he has to do this. Just in case.

"Delta?"

"Delta, Check." Rose Matthews confirms.

"Echo."

Finley Powell's voice sounds through his earpiece. "Echo, Check."

"Got the bag?"

"I got the bag."

"Outstanding." Franklin leans up on his toes, stretching his calves. "Foxtrot."

Caesar grumbles through. "Affirmative Six-Actual. Foxtrot, Check."

Franklin nods. Well, that's a quarter of them. "Porthos. Golf, come in."

Cecily Astrof respons a little later than Franklin first expects. "Sorry." She grumbles. "Golf, check."

"S'fine, Golf. Hotel, you copy?"

"Affirmative," Ata-Qadir replies. "Hotel, Check."

"India?"

He can see Kahala's fist fly into the air. "India, Check."

Franklin eyes the backside of his rifle. Anytime now. "Juliett?"

"You made me Juliett on purpose," Will complains. "Well fuck me, Romeo. I copy. Juliett, Check."

"In your dreams," Franklin snips, calmly. "Wadabout you, Kilo? You up for a round?"

Josephine snorts through the radio. "Yeah, right. You guys are disgusting. Kilo here, check."

"Fireteam Aramis." Franklin calls. "Mikey-poo?"

"Affirmative Six-Actual. Mike, Check." Lena calls in.

Franklin rolls his head back. He's bouncing on his toes now. "November?"

"November, checking in."

"Oscar?"

Nanami shifts her feet. "Copy. Oscar, check."

"Papa?"

"Miss your daddykins, pretty boy?"

"Not as much as I miss his sense of humor."

"Well, papa check, tough stuff."

"Outstanding." Franklin smiles. "Quebec?"

A growl through the radio.

Jamie, check.

"Romeo, check?"

"T—.. There's no way I'm shagging Will," Sun-Li blurts out suddenly, and half the room bursts out into nervous, though relieved, laugher. "I mean... I—... Romeo check."

Franklin smirks. "Lima-Six-Actual, check. Full house."

Ceasar throws his chin out at Franklin, rifle pressed up against his shoulder, the barrel pointing up at the roof.

"So what's the play?"

"Fireteam Injury makes their way with Fireteam Supriseparty towards through towards the track. Shell formation. Keep Supriseparty protected at all costs. That's part A. Part B, Fireteam Insult keeps the base protected at all costs. Chances are Squad 12 will want to play it safe; they'll be coming through both doors, if they're as co-ordinated as they've shown. But I expect to see formations, so I'm not worried. Alpha?"

"Check." Reg calls. "Done the math; it's a certainty."

"You heard Erwin Rommel, there. You know the score."

A sharp, high-pitched beep. Then again, and again.

Franklin looks over his shoulder sharply.

"Go, Squad!" He reaches out for Caesar and pulls him forward, slapping him on the shoulder as he passes; each cadet gets a thump on the shoulder as they move out. "Go, Go, Go! Go, Squad, Go! Go, Go, Go, Go!"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 _Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven_.

The medicine isn't settling. The medicine isn't settling, the pain isn't fading and Agent Vade Decker is pretty sure she's going to die.

Everything is too bright. That was the first warning. Too bright, too white—the corners of her vision was blurring, and as much as Vade knows the warning signs, it never hits a person until it is too late, half the time. She managed to get the gate open. That's the important thing. Looked a lot like a sewer grate, actually; large and circular, but dry. It had a standard electronic lock. Easy.

Almost too easy.

They got a few yards into the pipe. Then Vade fell.

Or she might have fell. Could've noticed what was happening instinctively and dropped to her knees. The vomit came up looking bloody. Vade had just enough time to rip off her helmet before blanching out into the pipe, resisting touching her face as she leaned forwards and watched as the last of it dribbled out from her lips.

"Shit."

Her stomach contracted so violently she had no time to move at all. One second she's kneeling and the next she's only just keeping herself up by one arm, the joint locked at the elbow.

"Shit, Deck?"

And then... Everything, but nothing.

 _Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land._

It's a woman's voice. Vade doesn't hear the words so much as feel them. Inside. Her voice is gritty and worn. Is it...?

Impossible.

How did she find her? When did she get the classification? What the hell is she doing here?

And what's all this crap about the meek inheriting the earth? The meek don't inherit shit. Except beatdowns and bruises. The stupid shits at the Acadamy are proof of that.

Vade coughs. Hard and loud and forceful. Something is grabbing at her wrists.

Vade frowns and gazes at the sea and see clouds. He gazes at the sky and see waves. She looks down to see if she's standing on her head. No, she's right side up. It's this place that's upside down.

 _Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted._

Southern Comforted, hopefully, 'cause this place is freaky. Not at all what Vade expected.

Mom. For one. Mother.

Her step-father, sure.

Reg. Jesus Christ. Reggie.

Cyrus?

Abigail, Clara and Annabelle. Of course.

Garret. Fuck him. Garret, fucker. Twat. Asshole. Garret.

What was all that hocus-pocus about all will be revealed? The black sun sets into the surf. Psychedelic colors burst from the clouds like fireworks. Vade groans.

Something is shaking. She can feel her neck guard digging into her throat.

Ow.

Going to have a bloody big mark there at this rate.

 _Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill._

Vade needs a drink. Where's her canteen? It must be here somewhere.

Whitecaps roll across the sky like storm clouds. The silence is deafening. There's not a single sound. Except it's noisy as hell. The noises are muffled. Dings, beeps, murmurs, and squeaks. Rolling over her like a distant thunderstorm. One sound is distinct. Her voice.

 _Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy._

The merciful. Christ. Vade certainly deserves no mercy; never gave it, never expected it.

 _Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God._

Guess that's why she ain't seen Him yet, neh?

Wait a minute. Why is Vade thinking He's a Him? It's a woman's voice she's hearing.

 _Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God._

Ha.

Vade looks around for her rifle. _Talk about peace, will you, Big Guy?_ She thinks. _Spend a day or two in the real world and get back to me then._

 _Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice's sake:_

Blessed are they that suffer persecution?

"Are you fuckin' shittin' me?"

Vade runs towards the cliff edge and takes one good last look at the noble sea before jumping.

 _For theirs is the kingdom of Heaven._

LutherHarrySheldonCameronRobertJeffThomas  
IanJayDanteJohnChristopherJackAldenMizu  
FrankArnoldBillyStephenRichardPaulNic  
EugeneMattBrianDrewAlexTimMark  
RyanJakeMichaelCarlaAbigal  
AnabelleRileyTannerDale  
JustinArchieSherman  
GregoryAaronSam  
MomDadReg  
Cyrus

There is a rumor, back in S.H.I.E.L.D., that Agent Vade Decker is something of a nightmare made manifest.

She just doesn't fuckin' die.

They weren't wrong.

"Oi, fucktard. Pass the water."

Cyrus' eyes are bloodshot, and his face is chalk white, but he's smiling and laughing and for the first time in what seems like years, happy. Legitimately happy. And not, as Vade often describes, 'I'm going to eviscerate you with a carrot peeler than sauteé your balls for breakfast' happy, but something genuine.

Vade has no fucking idea why. She feels like shit.

Turns out, taking more than 2mg of S.H.I.E.L.D. modified dihydromorphinone is a... bad idea.

Huh.

Who knew?

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"Let's go, people!"

They pelt it down the road towards the main thorofare, weapons at the ready. Lena is ahead of her, and Sadie follows the dark haired girl across towards their destination. They haven't seen anyone else yet, but in the air, the thunderous roar of gunfire rings through the night. Behind her, the rest of Fireteam Injury follow; Brooks, Astrof and Powell are all pushed in the middle of the collum of marching cadets, like the squishing center of a donut, protected on all sides by a wall of armored bodies.

There's a steady crackling of gunfire coming from the running track. Sadie can see the empty roads, surrounding it illuminated by yellow streetlights.

"Anything comes around that corner that looks more dangerous than a fucking street sweeper, you take it the fuck out." Daniel Bonaventura grumbles.

"Got it in one, DMW." Caesar calls through his mic, chuckling.

"DMW?" Sadie laughs.

Caesar looks over his shoulder. "Dead Man Walkin', ain't that right, Dannie-boy?"

"Hooyah!"

There's activity at the far end of the road, towards where the other barracks are located. There is a moment of intense silence, like the air is getting sucked out of the immediate vicinity, before everything erupts.

"Fuck me," Caesar screams. "Get out of the line of sight, people!"

They don't need the encouragement. The planters are good protection against small-arms fire. They jump behind them just as the ground around them explodes with bullets.

There is a small gap between the two buildings they are sat alongside. Finley looks down into the darkness and nods his head at Brooks and Astrof. "We'll go around."

"Well 'awight there Captain Cute," Daniel growls as he fires overhead. "Just keep yer' head down, now, neh?"

"Eh."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"I'm splitting off and going for the ditches," Ryan Patel tells Rukiyat. "They can't go after all of us if we split up."

"Who says they're going after us, dipshit?" Rukiyat was resolute. "We go in at once. They won't have many of 'em left by the time Squad 1 is finished with them."

"A dollar says you get shot as soon as you go out there," Ryan mumbled.

Rukiyat snorted. "This is why you and your sister are at the bottom of the standings."

As Ryan rustled away through the bushes, Rukiyat shook his head and brought his troop out into the open.

"They're gonna nail our arses when we try to cross the running track," someone mumbled down the radio.

"Just hope they don't have night vision," someone else whispered.

"Of course they do," Sarah, his second in command said irritably. "How the hell do you think he shot at us earlier?"

Rukiyat didn't get the chance to reply.

'He' shot him between the collarbones as soon as he started running.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

The sniper wasn't a he. Sun-Li and Sadie were lay on their stomachs on top of the curved roof of Squad 6's barracks. Sun-Li had been hoping for a shot at one of Squad 12, and she had been lucky, so far. With a straight shot at Rukiyat' front she'd hoped to get at least three hits. The first in the front would knock him down, the second and third would be aimed at his legs. Then she could radio through to the others and with luck they'd pick him up before he had a chance to run off the pain.

It would take only a few seconds for Jamie to run out of the building and beat on anyone who got too close. Hopefully, those who attacking would assume that he had been left for last. To make it more likely, Will and Frank would run out with him, too.

It left everyone else indoors. Waiting.

Sun-Li grits her teeth with determination, setting her rifle under her and pressing the backside up against her shoulder.

There is a few of them. Sun-Li aims towards the cadet situated well behind the others—a scout, perhaps, or just someone tasked with keeping a lookout from the rear. She adjusts her position for the wind speed, the inevitable drag and the approximate distance on instinct, her right eye squeezing shut as she looks down her rifle's sights. The four in the middle seem to be following the orders of the biggest in the group, likely some form of leader. Big man. The swagger in his walk gives him away, as does the firearm on his back. Sun-Li isn't sure—looks like a semi-automatic from her perceptive. A far better weapon than the crummy assault rifles the rest of them appear to be using.

The leading cadet ambles along the pathway firmly, shoulders swaying. The second and third are left covering him, in some sense. The fourth is situated between the one lagging behind and the trio of cadets s at the front. All of them are dressed in their typical garbs, but only their leader seems to be actually protected. She can see the faint glimmer of the protective plates from here.

A shot between the collarbones then. It would be simple. Easy. Sun-Li can line up that shot pretty quickly and then move onto the others. She already knew that, but it's nice he supposes, to reconsider now and again. To evaluate her options.

Then, they stop. Or at least, the three up front do. One of them appears to be arguing with the big one. Voices become louder, seemingly frustrated. Sun-Li doesn't really care; a distraction is excellent. The mantra runs its course as her shoulder shifted against the butt of her rifle, his finger curling around the trigger.

The weapon gave off a feeling of reliability and encouraged calmness and confidence.

Below, the cadets panic when the big man is brought down hard as the first of Sun-Li's 5.56mms hits home. Saide shoots too, almost in unison with Sun-Li, and one of the ones at the back is taken down, too.

For a simple second, none of them notice and Sun-Li just manages to get the leader in her sights again when there is a reaction. It's a noise of alarm, barely even a shout. better.

She catches the leader on the leg, and he screams out in pain. Suffice to say, that is enough to grab the attention of all of them immediately, shouting and moving for their weapons.

As it turns out, the one with the blood splatter has a sub-machine gun of vague make, but Sun-Li simply works around this development then rather opting to change her plan.

Another cadet comes running across the road between the two barracks' building, one Sun-Li hadn't seen before, one Sun-Li hadn't seen before.

Sadie drops them before the others can even register their presence.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Tossing his rifle aside, Jamie rolls out of the way as the bullets slam into the wall just above him in retaliation. Drawing his pistol, he scrambles into another half crouch, but this time dashes across the expanse of the ledge and jump drops down to their level. He's too quick for the lesser trained cadet, but one of the attackers tracks him smoothly, firing out a single shot and catching him in the upper shoulder. Jamie yells, gritting his teeth with a frustrated snarl, because hell—it does hurt. Not much, but enough. Yet because he practically lands on one of the tribals below him, he doesn't have the concentration span to focus on anything but finding cover. He's too preoccupied with grabbing the struggling cadet and slamming his forehead into them, stunning long enough to drag them before him as a crude form of human shield.

Bullets hammer into the ground before them and Jamie half jerks backwards, raising his handgun and firing a shot off, though not at the cadet armed with the machine gun—instead, at the cadet running at him with some form of stick.

They're playing dirty. They're playing angry.

Jamie understands angry, though. He understands dirty, too.

The distance is too close for comfort. By the time Jamie has managed to squeeze a shot off, clean through the front of the helmet, they collapse and land just within arm's reach, groaning and holding their head and complaining about brain freeze, of all things.

A couple of bullets hammer into the front of the cadet Jamie was holding, and he curls inwards and shouts at them to stop, that it hurts, but then, _then_ comes the barely audible click of the other cadet's magazine running dry and pushing the one he held away from him, Jamie sends a bullet straight into his lower back, before going after the one with the machine gun. The remaining cadet can't get their magazine in fast enough, so they discard it, running at Jamie.

They met with heavy impact. The cadet's hard, compact ribs slammed up against Jamie's face, but since his coat was drawn right against his chest, the cadet couldn't get a good hold of the fabric and his hands slipped. Jamie slid away, being the shorter one, he grabbed the cadet's hair and _pulled_ , bringing their face down onto his knee. Blood flowed, but he did not allow them to stagger backwards. Instead, he kept his grip and drug them down, onto the ground and just _hammered_ into them.

Their eyes meet for a second.

Only a second.

Jamie brings his foot backwards and kicks the cadet as hard as he can in the ribs. Once, twice. Their arms go to protect them. Jamie walks around and goes for their back.

 _Nan would not approve of harming an opponent when they're down._

Jamie kicks them in the back of the head.

 _Get up._ He thinks. _Go on, I dare you_.

Another kick to the back of the neck and they uncurl; he goes for the stomach.

"God, what the heck are you doing!?" Franklin screams.

Another kick. Then another, and another. This time he hits them in the face. Blood springs from their already busted nose and over their face. Another boot to the mouth then. Another kick in the chest.

Franklin and Will just manage to pull him away when the cadet stops moving.

There's nothing. Jamie just sort of stands there, watching as blood trickles down their face. Twitching. Fuming.

Franklin looks at him and turns his head just as shouting comes out from their barracks.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

It's an odd sensation; she can say that much, at least. Odd, because it's scary and exciting, all at once.

Ata Qadir Koyi has brothers. Six, all older, all stronger. She fought them in Syria before the war. She fought them and won. She hated it, but she won. She made Papa proud. His little champion.

Every movement is like a jolt of electricity, and she anticipates the first encounter. It's a she, one of the cadets who attacks their barracks, and she leaps in, quick as lighting, a jab connecting full on with Ata's cheek. Her nerves scream in pain, but clearing up the jittery haze, making the world unbelievably clear. Every sense heightened to the borderline of pain. The first punch hurts the most; after that, it seems minimal. Until the adrenaline wears thin, that is.

The beast that lurks within Ata, within all of them, leaps forward and pounds it's knuckles into her skull, throwing it's knee into her chest. Every blow exchanged is a thrill, every shock of pain a pleasure in its own right. Sweat drips from her face, pours down her back.

Chaos has erupted in the barracks. She watches as Reg Decker lands a kick under the chin of a cadet twice his size.

Ata will admit that Leanne Deadpan is a formidable opponent. A difficulty to overcome. A threat to be eliminated. Though she is determined to change the outcome as she moves for her, grabbing the other cadet's head and throwing it into her knee, throwing her whole weight on top of her when Leanne dropped like a rock. She grapples for dominance through the blow that sends her body into a frenzy, forcing them to thrash against one of the nearby bunks, rattling it and causing the fighting cadets to frenzy at the sound

Reg Decker gets knocked to the floor and struggles to get up. Nakano Nanami comes out of nowhere with a hockey stick to his defense.

Leanne's fist connects with Ata's ribs effectively a couple times before she gets the sense to nail her temple, sending little sparks of light into Ata's vision. She manages to pull away in a blur of motion, throwing her elbow just below her eye. The skin splits neatly, spewing in blood. The sight wretches painful memories in her, a brother, the sun burning harsh behind him, and the need to beat them back come through her fists.

Ata tries, too desperately, to throw too much power behind her fists, ultimately making them lag, and Leanne sends her reeling.

She watches as Daniel shouts words to her, the fighting still in her ears. Ata throws her foot into her torso, getting a jab to the abdomen. Leanne takes a few more nicely placed shots before time dies down to a slow crawl, her fist zeroing in on Ata's jaw. She ducks down, jabbing at her lower ribs, about where the floating ones are, feeling it give with a dull crack. She pushes down heavily with her left foot, bringing her right fist into an uppercut into the bigger cadet's chin, effectively shutting her body down. I jump back and watch her body crumple into the mat.

Ata jumps back and watches her body crumple down onto the floor.

Around them, all of them, shocked silence radiates.

"What the fuck was that?" Reg whispers.

Daniel growls and presses a hand up against his bloody mouth. He spits against the ground.

"That, kid," he groans. "Was not an assignment. That was a damn tag-teaming, no-fooling, beating."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Finley never changed much. Of course, he did make slight alterations in his personality, little tweaks here and there. He had remained egotistical, never the less, but dropped the habit of being loud and obnoxious, instead choosing to continue his remaining years at high school a little more on the quiet side.

This was due to his sudden changes in interests; he'd long since grown tired of constantly bidding for enough attention to be in the spotlight 24/7, and figured it'd be much easier if he'd just keep in mind that he was smarter and better than everyone else in the first place, therefore they didn't deserve to hear his voice as much as he was displaying it. That way he could get more done.

Finley was... very good at chemistry. Immensely good. Brilliant.

So was the makeshift bomb in his rucksack.

Nothing dangerous, of course.

But rememberable.

Oh yes, this will be rememberable.

"Help me up," He gasps, out of breath from the run. Gracie nods her head and kneels down, cupping her hands together.

"Time to shine, little man!" She laughs. "Christ, listen to it out there; it sounds like a war zone."

"That's cause it is, it's madness."

"This gonna happen all the time?"

"Might do,"

"Sweet!"

Finley crawls along the corrugated iron roof towards the ceiling window, the one that lets natural light in so they don't have to have lights on during the day.

"You okay there, kid? We gotta bounce quick, before anyone notices were here. You need help?" It's Cecily. Finely just about manages not to smile.

Yes, they'll remember this. Those cadets who tried to trip him, hurt him.

For the first time in years, Finley Powell has a group of people willing to help him without a second thought.

And now, he's going to repay them. For all the beatings they took for him.

"No, I'm fine." He whispers as he slips his backpack off, sliding it onto the roof beside him.

One.

Two...

He presses down on the realise inside the backpack, and hears the faint hissing; without wasting any time he rips open the top of the window by the latch, throwing it wildly and sending it over against the other side with a loud crash and smashing glass. He pushes the backpack in, looking down on a small crowd of surprised faces.

"Enjoy!" he shouts.

It takes them three seconds to realise what Finley had thrown in.

And suffice to say, when they get a whiff of some of the most horrid smelling substances known to man, they won't be going back in that barracks for a long, long time.

Cicily wraps an arm around his neck when they run off, rifles in hand.

"I think we're gonna' keep you," she laughs.

"Well," Finley smirks. "There's always more where that came from."

"I do hope so, dude, I really do hope so."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Bloodied and bruised, Squad 6 stand in front of Agent Azoulayn. The man holds a clip board, and he pauses for a moment or two, grimacing.

"I think we need to work on our self-defence," he mutters quietly. "Y'all look like a bunch of abused fruit on the January sale."

A sigh.

"Congratulations, Squad 6, on your victory."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

When Reg gets the call, he runs. He runs regardless on whenever he was supposed to be having any tact.

He sees her first, leaning against a tree and he very nearly bursts out crying. He doesn't. But he very nearly does.

Instead, he opens his dumb mouth as soon as he's within conversation distance.

"You look like shit," he greets.

And she does. She's pale as hell and her eyes are bloodshot and there is a crusting of blood at the corner of his mouth, but she's still his sister and she's not dead and Jesus Christ Reg feels like he's about to explode.

Agent Vade Decker raises her eyebrows.

"Are you blind?" She smirks. "I'm fucking gorgeous."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

OMGsorryforthelateuploadbutit'slike5:40inthemorningandI'llupdatetheauthor'snotelater,mmnkay?

Thanks for reading!


	10. Day Fourteen, 1232 HRS

**DAY 14  
** **1232 HRS**

A week after the assignment, when Squad 6 went into the mess hall, Franklin Faulkner took Josephine Kimble and Nanami Nakano aside before they could sit down.

"I need you," he says quietly, watching the rest of the Squad with restless eyes. He carried his meal on his tray.

"Oh?" Josephine did not look at him, not quite.

Frank did not answer, but simply waited until a group of identically dressed cadets all walked in and took up the end tables. Once they had all settled down with their own meals, Franklin walked up to their table, and regarded the cadet sat dead centre.

"May we sit?"

No verbal response, but a flick of the wrist. Franklin sat. The two other girls followed his lead.

Squad 3 was a unit of tightly regimented order. Surprising, considering how lax and complacent their squad Leader, John Cavelry, appeared to be. Franklin himself had come up with the Badger; he had always known him to be a religious sort, but recently the cadet had developed a cult-like following, and 'the Badger' had therefore turned into something of a SHIELD Academy urban legend rather than that of just a capable student. Frank himself supposes it is to be expected; the Badger was a man of placid nature, but highly charismatic and he knew his way around a group.

He didn't need to intervene personally with his Squad's affairs.

It's precisely why Franklin wants to talk to him.

The John Cavelry back in Pre-Operations had been gentle in character, to a degree. Frank had seen his work and the management of the other cadets first hand, and had been inspired, if unconvinced, of its long-term prognosis. He was a mediator, were most of the other cadet leaders were warriors; but he still managed to command the same, if not more, admiration from his peers, due to his even-tempered demeanour and his gentle dealings with those he found under his instruction. The Badger knew what to do with those under his command. Even if he did not fight his own battles—or, any battles of the sort. So it surprised Franklin, quite severely, in fact, to find that the John Cavelry who had been made into some mysterious cult figure appeared to be nothing of the sort.

It _was_ John, Franklin could see that; this was no imposter taking advantage of a good man's name, but he certainly wasn't what he had expected.

John Cavlery, after few mere months after his father's literal disgrace, had been a worn-out, borderline on desperate character. He had been smaller—less assured, and had an unkempt appearance, but kept some of that boyish charm and staunch idealism. The newly instated Cadet-Leader Cavlery of Squad 3, however, had been doing some growing up, it appeared. John was bigger, for one thing; broader and fatter, with an impeccably shaved jaw and the ends of his hair trimmed.

He regarded Franklin for a moment or two, flanked on either side by two massive cadets that appeared to hold some sort of deputy leader position.

"I have no desire to humiliate you, Faulkner," he said after another second of study. "You should not have come to me."

"I appreciate your letting me speak with you at all," Franklin answered.

"Wisdom said that I should announce to my cadets that the supposed greatest enemy we might face had come to see their general, and the general refused to see him. But I told Wisdom to be patient, and let Folly be my guide today over this meal."

"I am here to—"

"You is 'ere," said the Badger, "because you thought your presence might get you in to see me, because you want me to be your ally against Rukiyat."

"Rukiyat himself has allies." Franklin noted. "You are not one of them."

"I am ally to none but the Lord; in He I find support, not in worldly companions."

"I'm here to offer my help," Franklin replied.

"I command a squadron that has so far remained at the top of the ranks," said the Badger.

"Not out of any sort of effort."

"So you came to rebuke me, not to help after all,"

"I see I'm wasting my time," Franklin growled. "If we can't speak together without petty debate, then you are past the point of receiving help."

"Help?" The Badger raised an eyebrow. "One of my advisers said to me, when I told them I wanted to see you, 'How are this boy's soldiers?'."

"We're SHIELD Agents,"

"We, dear friend, are nothing of the sort."

"Until?"

"God wills it. But I speak of a different plan; here in these walls, we are nothing of the sort. We are soldiers fighting an unknown battle of self-worth and merit."

And then, suddenly, Franklin's perception changed. He could see that Josaphine and Nanami felt it, too. It was a pattern, a ritual. The Badger was not trying to hurt him, merely taking control of a surprising event and using it to strengthen his control of those under his command. Which could only mean one thing. John was not speaking to them; he was speaking past them. This was not a private conversation.

"I do not intend to be disrespectful," Franklin stressed.

The Badger visibly relaxed. They were now playing the same game. Franklin had finally understood the rules. "What is to be gained from humiliating those who believe they stand outside the power of God?" asked John. "God will show them his power in his own good time, and until then we are wise to be kind."

John Cavlery was speaking as the true believers around him required him to speak—always asserting the primacy of himself, the true warrior, their leader, over all non-Squad 3 powers.

"Rukiyat is out for blood."

"I believe, dear friend, that one should repent for his own sins."

"Jamie is aware," Franklin spread his hands out on the table. "Of his mistakes. I just wonder if that is a trait expressed elsewhere."

"Don't you know me?" John Cavlery grumbled.

"Yes,"

"Then tell them."

"No,"

John sat in wounded silence.

"Because I don't know whether the voice I hear in this is the voice of John Cavlery or the voice of the disrespectful others who put him into control and use him as a puppet to further their own careers."

Suddenly, violently, one of the boys sitting beside John stood up. Within moments, rough hands seized the front of Franklin's shirt and dragged him forwards. These hands exchanged as two other cadets took over from the advisor. Josaphine and Nanami rushed to his defense, only for him to raise a hand, telling them to stop. He faced only John, staring at him, demanding silently.

"Stop," said the Badger. Not loudly, but clearly.

"No person speaks to us this way!" The boy shouted. Heads around them started to turn.

"Let go of him," John said to his cadets, ignoring the one who had shouted.

There was no hesitation.

The boy turned to John, and frowned. "He uttered a challenge, did he not?"

The Badger remained seated. He said nothing.

His cadets began to move.

"Stop."

The soldiers stopped. They looked miserable and confused.

"He doesn't know what he's saying,"

"Do not move except at my command," the Badger suddenly stood. The cadets did not move.

The boy faced John again. "You're making a mistake, sir," he said.

A slow, menacing grin formed over John's face. Franklin mirrored it. This is it. They've done it.

"The soldiers of the Squad 3 are witnesses," said the Badger. "Their general has been threatened. His orders have been countermanded. There is a man in this mess hall who thinks he has more power in God than the general who commands him. So the words of this gentile are correct."

Franklin could see in the boy's face that he now realized that the Badger was not just some idiot who could be manipulated.

"Don't go down this road," he said.

"The soldiers of Squad 3 are witnesses," growled John, "that this man has given a command to his officer. A challenge. But unlike the gentile, this boy has ordered is own men, in the presence of the general, to disobey their officer. I can hear any words without harm, but when soldiers are ordered to disobey him, it does not require a prophet to explain that treason and blasphemy are present here."

"If you move against me," the boy said, "then the others—"

"The soldiers of Squad 3 are witnesses," said the Badger, "that this man is part of a conspiracy against their general. There are 'others'."

He turned towards Franklin, but did not address him.

"Cadets, take this one back to the barracks and round up any boys who dare discard themselves from the service of God. Move quickly, now, my friends, before the ones who are spying on this current conversation have time to escape."

Outraged, three of the cadets grabbed the older boy and dragged him to the barracks, swearing and screaming. Other's fanned out in various directions. It took a grand total of three to five seconds for the entirety of Squad 3 to take their leave. It left Franklin, Josephine, Nanami to face the Badger alone.

"I've done it," said the Badger. He smiled at Franklin. "Thank you for seeing what I needed."

"Being a provocateur comes naturally to me," he said.

"I hope we've been helpful." Josephine noted.

The Badger regarded her with a small head shake. "This isn't the work of ambitious cadets," he turned back to Franklin. "Kirkland."

"Kirkland?"

"Mhn."

"So he's actually—"

"If you are wise, you won't finish that sentence with any sort of conviction."

Franklin sat down. "We will win again, John. It'll become habit. He can't change that."

"One victory is not a habit," the Badger said.

"Us together against them."

"I have no quarrel with Rukiyat."

"No, but as you said, Kirkland does. You will, if he has his way."

"God's will."

"Kirkland's will."

John Cavelry sighed, and leaned forwards ever so slightly. They're just out of conversation range for anyone else aside from the three Squad 6 cadets.

"Something is gravely wrong, be on your guard."

Franklin frowns.

"Kirkland is the least of our concern, brother."

"Oh?"

"Why don't you ask Reginald Decker?" The Badger smiles. Unnerving. Knowing. "He and his sister might explain."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

"SHIIIIT!" Will groused as he half-jogged down the hall out of the locker room. "If we're late Agent Demented is gonna beat us senseless."

Face set into a grim line, Daniel Bonaventura followed on at a considerably less frantic pace. Rose followed Daniel's example. They'd just had lunch, and since practice had been put in early today, neither of them were in much of a mood to go out rushing for anything.

"I'm pretty sure his name is Agent DeMent." Rose notes absently, grinning.

"Whatever," Will dodged and weaved through the stragglers still hanging around. "I think he was a pretty bad choice for a gym teacher."

Well. He wasn't wrong.

Agent DeMent was using his normal speaking voice, but his normal speaking voice was considered yelling to most people. He wasn't very well liked.

"Okay," He boomed. "As you can see, we're doing track and field. You will be put in groups and will rotate to different events." He started calling out groups from his clipboard.

Neither Daniel nor Rose were in Will's group; they was set to do a hundred meter sprint first while he was assigned to long jump. The class jogged out to the track.

Begrudgingly, Will approached the sand pit with the huge runway. All the long jump did for you was fill your shoes with sand. He'd never liked it. And when he landed, feeling the grains of sand between his socks and in the insole of his shoes, he still doesn't like it. They have a ten-minute session each round, until Agent DeMent blows on his whistle. Will rotates to hurdles after that.

Ryan Patel and his sister Laura are on with him. Will curses. Ryan was one of Squad 12's lot, as was his sister. His sister was actually okay, but Ryan? He'd made a living out of playing dirty, it seemed. Will wanted to punch him in the face for the shit he'd pulled, but they had all learnt that physical violence was best saved for when the Instructors weren't around. Ryan used that to his advantage. He was a sly bugger. He slipped away each and every time Will, Daniel and Rose had gone looking for him after training.

They set themselves up and when Agent DeMent pulls the trigger, they start running. At first it goes well. Well enough. Will cleared the first and second hurdles with no problems at all, and in first place.

A sudden flash of an ankle. Ryan Patel's white grin. Will mentally swears.

He heard it before he saw it. The hurdle fell well before Will could clear it and on the way down, he catches his foot and slams bodily onto the track. He felt his whole side get scraped.

The rest of the cadets cleared the finishing line before they crowded around him, not entirely sure what to do despite having made significant leeway into First Aid since arriving. Will scowls and casts a glare at Ryan. He's smirking, but he looks innocent.

Laura glares at her brother, then looks back at Will.

"Cadet Yoshita!" Agent DeMent barks from half way across the field. "Sitting comfortable there? Get up! Walk it off!"

Will pushed himself up and growled as he untangled his legs from the metal hurdle, and swore again when he saw his state of craptastically. He brushed off his your arm and winced, his hand coming back with blood.

"You better start running," Will glares at Ryan. His expression doesn't change.

"Eat it, shithead." Ryan smirks. "It's _you_ who should be running."

Daniel catches his eye from the five-hundred metre and nods his head.

One day.

One day they'll get that asshole.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

On the other side of the campus, Lena Tarasov, Caesar Shevchenko, Ata-Qadir Koyi and Jamie Blake all stood around in the gym, in the midst of their Advanced SDS class.

The entirety of the Pitch tended to live in fear of the hand-to-hand instructor, Mike Yamada. If he hadn't beaten them all half senseless during their first sparring lesson, he might have drawn some amusement, being one of the shortest Agents around, but he had; he'd beaten them all hard and good to prove his point, and so they lived in absolute, total fear. He had been a Hoplite, back in his day; a member of a group of specialised SHIELD Agents who were generally considered the top of the top in the Military corps. The kind of specialised Agent who were sent into war zones and come out thirty to forty minutes later leaving behind graveyards. At the insistence of the World Security Council, the Hoplite program had been reduced to glorified bodyguards, true, but the reputation still rang true.

You get the wrong side of a SHIELD Hoplite Commando, you get fucked up.

Mike Yamada had been one of those soldiers, and had transferred to SHIELD Academy just before they were reinstated as protection officers, as he insisted on appending his retirement from fieldwork—he had refused, unlike many other Hoplite Commandos, to stand around catching bullets for what he saw as unsympathetic, undeserving politicians—and had landed here, teaching the greenest recruits he had ever had the misfortune of resting his eyes upon how to not get killed when—not if—their fancy firearms failed. He was also a believer in alliteration—a vaguely familiar word Lena frowned at, until she looked it up. Even more surprising was the fact he never seemed to stumble over the words, no matter how complex. Lena—along with a good many others—would have loved to give him a copy of the children's classic 'Fox in Socks' and see what he made of it.

This would represent a deathwish, however, so they refrained-but joked about it after particularly long, difficult days of which there were many. But this was SHIELD Academy, it was not meant to be easy.

Easy, hard or indifferent, after the first day, all the cadets had come to the same conclusion: Mike Yamada did not like his job as an instructor. He did not like the standard SHIELD Agents, and he did not like teaching cadets to become standard SHIELD Agents.

For cadets like Caesar and Jamie, this was no problem. They would likely be drafted out into the SHIELD Military corps no sooner than they completed their training. Yamada knew this; Yamada respected this. Lena and Ata-Qadir, however, did not.

The first day, after they all thought Yamada had broken Tommy Blake's arm while 'demonstrating', they realised just how much of a lunatic some of these supposed-SHIELD professionals turned out to be. As it turned out, the injury was not as bad as feared. Tommy reappeared with a tendonitis band on his lower arm before the next day, cursing Yamada as the most evil individual he ever had the misfortune to meet.

All feared Yamada. Especially when, after Tommy returned, he put them all through the wringer for presuming to doubt his ability to avoid severely damaging one of his cadets.

Ata-Qadir had complained about this one night, only for Reg Decker to look up from his bunk and claim, however calmly, that if they thought Mike Yamada was bad, they should meet his sister.

Hoplites weren't chosen because they were _polite_. They were chosen because they all possessed some crazy, hyper-lethal cocktail of warrior ideology which prohibited them from dying anywhere aside from in a fight, and then the remarkable ability to _not_ die in a fight at the same time.

Which made the whole concept of Yamada even more terrifying. Particularly as one of his teaching styles was to-more or less-pound on a cadet until he or she gave up. There was never any verbal recrimination when someone called it quits—though there were usually laps run around the barracks before which these lessons took place—but everyone felt the sting of some unseen barb or whip as they ran.

And it was impossible to get one over on Yamada. He sometimes gave the impression of reading minds.

No one noticed it took a little longer each week for Yamada to get people to give up, though. Everyone cheered—then mourned the repercussions—when someone did manage to get a hit in. More often than not, though, half the cadets hated Yamada more than they feared him... _right_ up until they presented themselves in front of him for the daily lesson.

He was easier to hate when he did not stand glowering, exuding intimidation from every pore in his body.

Lena knew that, on general principle, that Yamada posed no threat to her aside from that in the ring, but still, she couldn't quite help it.

She broke out of her reverie as Yamada's first punch landed against her upraised forearm. Little shocks of pain shook the bones, but the block held. Her punch did not go so well, though she managed to avoid having her arm caught by Yamada. If he caught you by the arm, it was all over—it was also a favorite move of his, and by now most of the recruits could predict it, even if some still had trouble avoiding it.

Turning a half step let her hip catch his kick—better than letting him plant that boot in her stomach.

Lena returned the kick, but Yamada caught her by the ankle.

"What do I tell you about that kung-fu crap?" he asked, with an irritated sigh.

SHIELD had recently developed the SDS program. All other fighting techniques were therefore considered controversial.

The fight went downhill for Lena after this, but the lesson of don't let him catch your ankle when you kick sunk in deep, driven further by aches and pains. Finally she hit the ground, aching more than ever, feeling bitter and resentful.

Even so, she remembered not to come at him swinging, with bitter resentment as fuel. He would put her back on the ground twice as fast if she sacrificed thought for a burst of strength.

Lena grit her teeth as she rolled onto her stomach, not quite beaten into submission—but getting there. She glared up at Yamada, her mouth trembling as pain washed through her.

Then she smiled at him. A grim, defiant smile which told Yamada plainly she had found the rainbow of promise. She wouldn't be here forever. She would graduate and get going. And he would be stuck here, giving green cadets grief.

How was that for alliteration?

"You can kill me," Lena growled, not moving to clutch her throbbing arm, knowing it would catch Yamada's attention, and her next comment would attracted plenty of that. "But you can't eat me. It's cannibalism, and it's against the law."

A deadly silence fell over the class.

Yamada shrugged, as though to say 'have it your way'. He moved to put his foot on Lena's arm—she knew it was not broken, only very painful.

She pivoted, her heel slamming into his knee. He just broke one of his own rules: don't got near them, unless you're sure your opponent is 'dead'.

Yamada stifled a cry of pain, his knee buckling as Lena clumsily got to her knees.

She never really knew what happened. Her last memory before waking up in the infirmary was seeing Yamada's foot heading right for her face and a burst of little rainbows—but not the rainbows of promise she wanted.

She also thought she saw something similar to approval, but did not get to look at the expression long enough to decide before blackness cut off her vision.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

It turns out, cornering Reginald Decker when he's within five feet of his heavily trained half-sister is a bad, bad idea.

Franklin was not in the Advanced SDS class. So he was, as they say, uneducated, in the matters of how well SHIELD Hoplite Commandos are trained.

Turns out, they are trained well. Very well.

Franklin had found Reg Decker with that Elizabeth girl, out near the south wall. At first, it wasn't obvious that there had been a third participant in their conversation, and Franklin—flanked with Josephine Kimble and Nanami Nakano—had gone storming over looking for an explanation to the Badger's comments.

Well, yeah; he got his explanation.

It came in the form of getting slammed into the perimeter fence well before he could even get a word out to Reg, with a pale forearm lodged hard between his Adam's apple and his collarbone, pressing down with enough force to nearly choke him out instantly.

Agent Decker had her brother's short stature, but while her brother was dark eyed and haired, she was fairer in appearance. With her hair cut into a overgrown buzz cut revealing a round, tense face, narrow blue eyes set delicately within their sockets; she looked him up and down once, and was seemingly set on letting him go, when Josephine and Nanami caught her by surprise. For a moment, there is something of a stand-off, with neither her nor the other two girls moving an inch or say anything, but then her gaze redirects to Reg, and somebody moves, and the whole thing kicks off. Literally. Josephine comes running in and with a surprising amount of elegance, Vade Decker shifted her weight off of her bad leg and threw herself upwards; using Franklin's body mass as a launching pad, and sent her bad leg upwards, catching Josephine under the chin. Her good leg came in and hit the younger girl in the ribs. Hard. Hard enough to send her back into Nanami. The two girls stumbled and landed heavily on the grass. Reg went over immediately with an extended hand.

Franklin grabbed hold of Vade's collar when she landed, and earned himself a punch to the face for his effort.

"Ouch," Reg noted, gently and winced. "Vade, they're with me... Please?"

 _Please refrain from killing my squadmates_ , seems to be the comment at hand, and Vade looks from Reg to Franklin to the two girls to Elizabeth then to Reg and back to Frank, who is released _—_ and shoved into the wall again.

"And here I wondered what the heck happened to external security." She gripes, shifting to get a better look at Franklin. From this distance he can make out the faded shrapnel mark stretching from the right side of the forehead, first running towards thin lips and ending on her right cheek. "Ya'll okay there, cadet?"

"I—" Franklin gasped in surprise and pain. "Yes."

"You take a beating like a man. Good for you." She returns her attention to the two girls. "But you need improvement. Never corner a potential tango who's got one of your own with them; makes 'em desperate."

Josephine seems to have clocked the identity of the Agent stood before her. "You?"

"Not so much now, no. But instinct is instinct. We're all human, at the end of the day." A tilt of the head. "Humans do bad things."

"Like rat out others," Elizabeth speaks up, and she glances at Reg. "Who told?"

"The Badger." Franklin hisses out, touching his face.

Vade frowns. Everyone else squirms.

He doesn't dare move. "John Cavelry."

"Cavelry," Vade repeats almost immediately, thinking. "Cavelry... as in, William Cavelry? Erin Cavelry?"

"Both."

Vade makes a noise at the back of her throat. She looks at her brother, then back at Franklin.

"On a scale of one to ten, how compromised am I right now?"

Reg shrugs. "Everyone still thinks..." He can't seem to get the words out. "About a three. Maybe four."

"The Badger is... well, if he knows, that's not much of a problem."

"Anyone knowing is a problem." Vade growls. "Why'd you track my brother down?"

Franklin thinks about this for a second or two. "You know anybody named Anthony Kirkland?"

"Asshole." Vade quips instantly, and then seems to relax. "He's what we call a third-tier Agent. One of the big boys."

"Third tier?"

Vade seems to reflect, as if choosing her next words with care. "Melinda May? Phillip Coulson, John Garret? Heck, even Director Fury. Third-Tier. Those under them, people like me and, uh, fuck Hawkeye—Agent Barton, Agent Ward, we're what we call Fourth-Tier, the successors of Third-Tier agents. First-Tier would be the people you hear about in the SSR history books, I guess. You'd be about... sixth, I think."

"You think?" Reg grumbles.

"Hell if I know, kid." Vade responds absently. "It's a system I haven't, like, adapted to. We Commandos go full military, neh?"

Hearing Vade speak Academaro seemed to make them relax, if only slightly.

"Why you here?" Franklin asks, guardedly. Vade grimaces.

"I'd tell you, but then I would literally have to kill you," she smirks. "But what I can tell you is that I need you five to keep it a secret that I'm here. Especially to fuck-wits like Kirkland, get me?"

"Get you."

"Prime." She sighs. "This Badger fella', he tell you to keep an eye out?"

"Yeh."

"Cripe, what for?"

"Something bad. Said to be on our guard."

Vade looks unconvinced. "That's good enough advice on a good day; from what my brother tells me, you lot are in the shitter." She tilts her head. "Still. Something bad is going on, so I'd hear him out, neh? Just in case."

Franklin looks at Reg. "And you?"

"Sneaking supplies to Johanna."

"What?!"

"Food, shelter. Medical equipment."

Vade grinned. "I got shot,"

"Nothing new there," Reg growled. Vade shot him a warning look. "I'm just _saying_."

"Well, don't." She said simply. Then, she looked at Franklin. "Say. Actually, you might be able to help."

Franklin's silence prompts her to continue, and Vade sets her stance.

"You got anyone in that little squad of yours who can wrangle SHIELD's highly protected computer network?"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Okay, done and done. Things are hotting up here. HYDRA is coming. Prepare yourselves.

The relationships for the characters are as follooooows~

Reg/Elizabeth  
Franklin/Daniel  
Marley/Gracie  
Cecily/Caesar  
Will/Laura  
Ella/Finley  
Rose/Joshua  
Jamie/Sadie  
Ata-Qadir/Badger-Boy

If I've missed anyone, please PM me like, instantly, because this list is old and I lost the updated version e_e;

Anyhoo, this is how relationships are going to work:

I have planned three SYOCs. STALINGRAD, BANDOGGE DAY and the third and final part of the series, PARABELLUM, which will include all of characters in the prior two SYOCs to some degree, during the immediate fallout after the HYDRA-SHIELD Civil War. Some of the above relationships will be complex, to some degree, and others not; some of them will carry on and will only become obvious in PARABELLUM, for the simple, glaring reason that not everyone will best friends for long, and decisions will have to be made and those decisions have consequences, good and bad. The same goes for those who have characters in BANDOGGE DAY. By the end of each fic, things will be up in the air to say the least.

The Badger is someone to look out for, btw. He's devastatingly charismatic and has a similar effect to a highly religious leader. Cross the Pope with Genghis Kahn, and you have John Caverly. Squad 6 will have their work cut out for them, to say the least.

As for Vade, she is a trained Agent, and a good one at that, who has eight to nine years more experience than the cadets; if she had wanted to off them right there and then, she would have, so it's high praise that she let them get away relatively scot-free. Between her, Mordechai and Yamada, they'll be fit for service in no time at all. After all, the best teachers are those who show you.

And hit you. Incidentally.

I'll see you next time!


	11. PART TWO

**ARCHIVE NO#:** 2010crss-ovr2013-logAPH-AH-4102

 **DOCUMENTS:** [Current Operations-Missions]:  
# 0005RDNA-ZSAN-0978-MLI-076H-908RT-02-HG-01 (APH-RDNA-05)

 **STATUS:** FAILED **[?]**  
 **DIRECTIVE-OBJECTIVE:** [CLASSIFIED]

 **[RESTRICTED ACCESS]:** OVERRUN by Authorized Permission

 **FILES:** SHIELD AIR MOBILITY COMMAND: [OPERATION PREPARATION AND PRELAUNCH-OPERATIONS] : [[SHIELD PRE-PREMILIARLY COMMAND - HOPLITE COMMANDOS]]  
 **SORTED BY:** Assigned Location (original) - OPS [R]

 **WARNING:  
This record and the information contained herein is classified as LEVEL 9 CLASSIFICATION, RED as per _Executive Order 13292, OFFICIAL STATE COMBINED ACT., 2013., LEVEL 9 CLASSIFICATION ORDER_. Duplication and/or distribution of said information without proper clearance is strictly prohibited.**

 **FURTHER DISTRIBUTION OF INTELLIGENCE BEYOND THIS POINT IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.  
RIGHTFULLY AND WILLFULLY ORDERED UNDER** **:  
** _OFFICIAL STATE COMBINED ACT., 2013., LEVEL 9 CLASSIFICATION ORDER_

 **...**

 **..**

 **OPERATION: BANDICOOT**  
&eewewqejfrwe(**W# (DATA-CORRUPTED239148sd9d  
 **Features:** QE38URJU8 !  &ADISF89W34-0I0AK0-2(*& **891THEY3494325ITS8230-834ARE30HERE2-39-32-348503(( (30=-48478EVERYBODY'S3294GSA3284  
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THEYRESTILLHERE392230349&* ****** #(HYDRA)dsia2q93))# #$$%%THEYEXISTSTHEY2393akierwjfsmjmcISRESPONSIBLEFOR9232349& !dsadssajdoipdaqweu9q3293fgh&$THIS3idsf9323932-4324995jfdjsasidjwtWENEVERWON !

OHMY392ajdfsfhrjgrsoejfsjei293495PLEASE29349832osdajdrjeiNE!WBORN92jda83jei9wjfwWIFEi2!9edqda^ 5320DAUGHTERajsdeushfer842q29&# y6LOVETHEM

 _Message Report Corrupted_  
Reason: 3qewisdoj934w32-askd;ladfgj

 _Automatic Transmission to potential OPERATION: BANDICOOT, RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, HOPLITE COMMANDO SQUADRON 5_ E&eewewqejfrwe(**W# (DATA-CORRUPTED239148sd9d _immediately  
_ RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.

...

RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.

...

RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.  
RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, please resend your report.

 _Automatic Transmission to potential_ _OPERATION: BANDICOOT, RESPONSE TEAM SIERRA, HOPLITE COMMANDO SQUADRON 5E &eewewqejfrwe(**W# (DATA-CORRUPTED239148sd9d_ _canceled by admin request._

[END FILE]

...

 **[STALINGRAD]**

Read the corrupted data VERY carefully, and you might find a... horrible? Suprise.

For those who might want a little inkling into what will be happening next:  
Response Team Sierra, or Commando Squadron 5, was the former unit Agent Vade Decker first served with under with the SHIELD Hoplite Commandos.  
Vade Decker happens to know Agent(s) Yamada and Mordechai.  
Squad 6 has a small, tentative alliance with Squad 3.  
The Badger knows more than he is letting on.  
And fucking HYDRA are right around the corner :)

As for now, with my co-author Civilian in the Netherlands, I'll be taking a small break until they return. By next week, I'll be updating regularly again—but until then enjoy this not-cliffhanger/teaser.


	12. Day Forty-Five, 1532 HRS

**Day 45.**  
 **1532 HRS.**

His father always talked about how everyone contained multitudes. He was a man very attuned when it came to the subject of wider spirituality, and one of his more favored subjects was of how any one person was not just a single being, but rather acted as a focal point for a number of unknown multitudes and consciousnesses that existed beyond human understanding. Cyrus' father himself, Reg Decker, Vade to some degree, Daniel and Ata Qadir Koyi had their God, Nakano Nanami had her own traditionalist view; Cyrus had nothing, but he can see where they are coming from. Far distant eyes behind your own, many within one, a secret guiding force... something like that crap, anyway. Cyrus Sager understands people on a fundamental level, but religion, or spirituality as a sodding whole, tended to be cryptic and tedious to understand―so he didn't, and doesn't.

But Cyrus didn't have to meet this garbled collection of overgrown youth to see. Not quite.

Back before... _this_ , three to four years ago, Cyrus had been happily oblivious. But then he'd found himself on the World Security Council with a SHIELD Hoplite Commando for a bodyguard, with Decker, and he started to understand. There is no warning with Hoplites―no introduction, there is only a codename and a serial designation, perhaps a former squadron or two, so even those heavily attuned into the AMC knew virtually nothing of what made a Commando tick. Cyrus has the privilege of understanding a Hoplite both as a human and a myth, the two sides coexisting in his mind but never fully overlapping, though it has taken time. Years.

So he knows, perhaps, that this is... a bad situation to find themselves in.

An understatement, of course, but it's hard to put everything into perceptive when the world a mere few miles away is carrying on without you.

Come to think of it, Decker hasn't complained much, for her. About all of this. Cyrus doesn't really know what to think. They're so far out of their comfort area in terms of expertise that they might as well be in a put in a room of needles and thistles and spiders. Vade Decker hates spiders. Odd, Cyrus thinks. For her to have such a generic phobia, but there they go.

"Your little fantasy forays are even worse than usual, fruitloops." Decker hisses, bringing him back to reality with a start. She was supposed to be sleeping―Deck, that is, but of course, the ever omnipotent protector sees all. She thinks that Cyrus is a bit of a dope, apparently. A daydreamer.

Cyrus rolls his eyes. "Nice onomatopoeia." He comments, dryly; then, a horrible thought occurs to him, and he can't help it. "Decker."

She goes rigid at the obvious tension in his voice. "The fuck is it?"

He looks down at his hands. The place they are squatting in, quite frankly, is inadequate for a living space, but it is all they have. The water treatment area outside the walls is connected to various pipes, for sewage and water, and is easily defensible, but it is also made of solid blast-proof concrete, is damp by principle and _dark_. Decker doesn't want any of the lights being visible from the turns in the pipe, or the grate leading outside into the wilderness beyond, wich means they only have a small corner actually illuminated. Cyrus sits here, because he's reading, but his bodyguard sits in the darkness, just beyond his range of sight. He can see the tips of her boots, that's it. He knows by principle that there is a rifle on her lap. She's sat there because she can flank both of the entrances.

And of course, there is the red speck from the end of her cigar.

Never before has Cyrus wanted to go home this much.

"The apartment..." It's both a statement and a question. He manages not to swallow, keeping his thinning composure intact. The apartment itself must be still intact, but probably blown all to hell.

Their home, or as close to it as them two screwed-up fucktards get. It was a piss-poor excuse of a sanctuary; a shitty tangle of good but tainted memories, and bad ones screaming in the walls. But it was a safe place. A space to go back to. Neither Cyrus nor Decker had much in the way of sentimental, Decker especially not, but everything else is still... well, gone.

"One thing at a time, kid." Decker grumbles, and inhales, the end of her cigar brightening and giving Cyrus a view of a jawline illuminated by fiery tones, the scar tissue from that shrapnel mark disturbing the shape and shade of skin on the side of her face. "None of that matters, not now. Eventually, though. We'll get it sorted out."

This is how Decker is. They _will_ get it sorted out. It's been knocked down? Build it the fuck back up. Something in the way? Knock it the fuck down. Cyrus doesn't like it, but having all that expertise and semi-genius and potential directed towards sort of constructive means, for example; keeping him alive, it's almost reassuring. The Reaper told him this at the beginning. SHIELD Hoplites, Agents, Speicalists―they're all brilliant, each in his or her own way, it's the reason why they are here. Sometimes you are just surrounded by such potential that you forget. It's times like this that Cyrus actually remembers.

Almost. Becuase they are still here, constantly on their guard, with a great unknown enemy just beyond the horizon where they cannot see.

"You said they were in Syria." Cyrus notes, sounding grave, and Decker drags on the end of her cigar again.

"Ee'yup."

"So what happened?"

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **2012**

Damascus.

It's the second-largest city after Aleppo, and as of this day, twice as dangerous. 77 people died yesterday in the suburbs. You were in transit when you heard the news. Going in hot, hyper-rapid style.

SHIELD would never have sent anyone else, they tell you.

دمشق . The City of Jasmine; مدينة الياسمين , _Madīnat al-Yāsmīn_. It had an estimated population of 1,711,000 as of 2009, but now, flying above the burning city in the midst of revolution, you have little idea how many live there now. After the rebels initially captured half a dozen districts and killed four high-ranking government ministers in a bombing, opposition forces were forced to retreat following a military counter-attack, leaving the army in control of the capital after three weeks of fighting. It was the first time tanks and helicopters had been deployed in central Damascus. It's left parts of the city a fully-fledged war zone.

They tell you they have a mission for you.

"We're deploying you to assist with combat operations with Agent Hand."

Victoria Hand. Level 8. No-nonsense attitude with a rigid, uncompromising respect for rules and protocol. Felt that fellow agents were disposable as long as the mission was completed.

Oddly enough, you recall, such a sentiment is not shared in regards to herself.

 _Better wear that helmet comrade._

You are not alone. You are with the regulars. The Reaper, Knockout, Combo and Grumble are penciled in your usual fireteam. Shy, Buckaroo, Fumbles, Everest and Kilogram make up the second round. That's ten SHIELD Pre-Preliminary Commandos for a mission. And that it is a lot. For Hand, who was a minimalist in terms of personnel, desired as few as possible to do as much as possible.

"You will be assigned to Agent Hand who will provide you direction as needed, but as the fighting is heavy in Damascus, I do not imagine that you will be tasked with much beyond entering the premises and extracting the artifact as ordered."

That all?

Combo is the only one who registers your EVF-Armour HUD short-hand on the short-wave band and therefore, is the only one who smirks a little when you nod your understanding.

"As you know, we are not allies with the Assad regime, but these mercenaries need to be taken out. We don't know how they managed to get their hands on artifacts of such a calibre, but they need to be terminated, and soon, before they find a buyer. In the spirit of Directive 720 and the mandate to activate all serviceable Hoplite's to field duty, you are being deployed as a high-level military asset to aid with SHIELD objectives. You will be maintaining the identities of fallen Hoplites for the duration of this mission."

Fallen Hoplites?

"Yes. You're at Level Zero now. Your active serial is now # 000 0000000. You will not run under your original service tag or your serial actual for the duration of this mission. You will be running under the serial # NFF 09D745, who was confirmed KIA on February 2nd of 2006."

Solo? Cannot multi.

"Pardon?"

SHIELD – Damascus?

"Oh. No other SHIELD teams have been assigned to this particular sector. You are not to engage with any SHIELD personnel if circumstances arise that put you in contact with others. If you must engage, however, your Level Zero directive and command codes will ensure they do not interfere with you. No level and file SHIELD personnel know what # NFF 09D745 looked like or his history. They will only have access to his public service record. You will be briefed, I imagine, if you wish."

Fun.

"I very much doubt it will be. You are being deployed into a live-fire zone. Do you understand your directive, # NFF 09D745?"

Yes.

"Any SO looking to supersede your clearance must provide Level Zero security codes. Again, you are not to engage directly with other SHIELD Commando's aside from your own unit unless the situation is of utmost urgency. Understood?"

Got it.

"You always do."

Knockout stretches his legs out. "Don't worry, Vade. You'll survive."

You look at him, questioningly.

"You're hard to kill. I almost feel bad for them, you know?"

"Don't," you say.

"I said 'almost'. Did Combo mention this will be an hard-drop insertion?"

You glare at Combo.

"I was getting to that. As I said, we're deploying into a live-fire zone and we cannot clear a low-altitude LZ." Combo winces. "Don't worry about it, Gahba. You are trained for this."

You glare at Combo.

"I cannot see your face, but I suspect you are not happy."

You glare at Combo.

"If it's any consolation whatsoever, it is unlikely they will have any weaponry capable of targeting a single parachuting Commando."

"Thanks," you say, but what you really mean is you hate heights.

It's not that you're scared of heights it's just that gravity is a force not generally to be fucked with. It's fondly, Knockout says, called 'digging your own grave'.

"Good luck, # NFF 09D745."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **PRESENT DAY**

Days turn into weeks, and as time drags on, so do they.

Lena Tarasov graduates from SDS at the top of the class. Mike Yamada actually shakes her hand upon being presented with class muster. She doesn't explain why she does what she does. She's under strict orders to never mention, or even insinuate to mention, the Red Room again.

Gracie somehow manages to not only get into the Instructor's primary locker room, but by the time she's finished, all the cadets have keycards a few levels higher than what they should strictly be issued. Nobody says anything to the contrary, however. They're at war. This is an advantage.

(The vending machines have stood empty for weeks.)

Nanami Nakano is ambushed by a group of Squad 12 cadets, only for them to be chased down the running track by the former, who had been holding two swords menacingly at the time. As a result of this, Squad 3 bestows upon her the name of _Ninja Gaiden_ and, ultimately, Nanami develops something of a cult following.

Marley Capital, after helping Gracie by―though she denies having any part of this―dropping a few hundred kilos of cheese puffs on Kirkland from the Mission Prep's fourth story window in order to by the other girl time, is treated like a hero for a good week and a half once news gets around of the 'Savory Snack Attack'. She and Gracie become something of a team.

Reg Decker took Jamie Blake out to meet with his sister and Cyrus Sager. It did not go well. After borderline on pointless argument on wherever or not Jamie resembled the Terminator, Vade punched Jamie so hard in the solar plexus that he vomited.

Jamie suddenly, and rather ironically, has a new hero.

Sun-Li has been talking to someone online. For some reason, this makes Daniel Bonaventura more unbearable than usual.

Cecily Astrof finishes all of her academic work flawlessly and the rest of the squad is left feeling a little bit inadequate in terms of their work ethic.

Ata Qadir, turns out, is one of the better liaisons between Squad 6 and Squad 3. Franklin is overjoyed, and now, the _Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of Squad 6_ is officially a thing.

Ella Kahala joins the Pitch Football Team. Things sort of develop... _violently_ ...from there.

William manages to somehow cap Ryan Patel in the knee while running, and after getting a subtle thumbs up from the idiot's sister at practice, the day is declared Best Day of the Year and the track team cadets of Squad 6 celebrate by taking Ryan's gear and throwing it into the long jump sand pit.

Josephine Kimble, for some reason, has a bunch of files she shouldn't have access too. She blames Gracie, who blames Marley, who in turn blames Franklin―who in his defense, blames Reg Decker, who blames Josephine in turn. Nobody elected to mention that by the time the blame game had finished, Kimble had somehow managed to put all of the files back where they belonged without them noticing.

Daniel has begun to start humming the Pink Panther theme tune behind her back whenever he can get away with it.

Reg Decker's relationship with Elizabeth is going well. So well, he visibly convulses in panic whenever the term 'marriage' is mentioned.

Daniel Bonaventura meanwhile is referred to the campus counseling service after his letter in his English class. He spends each and every one of them reciting quotes by George W. Bush just to spite them. Despite the fact that Daniel votes Democrat by principle.

("It appears that you have misunderestimated me.")

Sadie somehow manages to not only mother Squad 6, but Squad 3, as well. Her astonishing aptitude for trust and friendliness even outmatches the Badger, who for the first time in years, is stricken speechless by her ability to relate to others.

Rose Matthews accidently flirts with someone named Joshua Nixon one afternoon and Vade Decker chases her across the treeline with a spade. All is forgiven an hour earlier when Vade actually confesses that Rose took her by surprise, and she thought that Rose was either a spy, or one of Joshua's friends.

(Both of which are equally terrifying, apparently, when it turns out that Joshua Nixon goes by the handle of _Knockout_.)

Finley Powell has been working on something, he says, brilliant. Everyone in the team gives his bunk a wide, wide birth. Just in case.

Caesar Shevchenko is failing English, excelling in Endurance and Marksmanship and is racking up PT scores like a man possessed. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that he is going to have a decision to make. And soon.

Franklin Faulkner has no idea how out of all the cadets he could get stuck with, he got these ones.

(Not that he's complaining.)

(Much.)

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **2012.**

A warning buzzer sounds as Combo flung open the aircraft door, flooding the gloomy metal tube with sunlight. You clutch your fingers around your parachute straps. You have a handgun, a small backpack and your clothes. That is it. The numbers on the clock flash as the count dropped below sixty seconds.

"Hook up!" He screams over the comm. "Eighteen seconds!"

You fight a spasm in you gut as you move along to the line of Commandos all stood up against the fuselage. None of you look happy, but from under your visors, none of them look as unhappy as you.

"Good look, Agents!" Someone shouted. "Remember: three elephants, check buildings, and steer gently if you drift close to another jumper."

You hook your strap onto the cable as an announcement loud enough to be heard in a war zone blasted out of a speaker beside them.

"This is the co-pilot speaking. Navigation confirms we are in location. Winds are nine knots north easterly, giving us a drop-zone window of fifty-eight seconds on my mark."

You look over the helmets of the other Commandos as the countdown clock flashed triple zero. Knockout was less than twenty centimetres ahead and the Reaper was at the same distance behind you, but you feel isolated.

"Mark," the co-pilot announced.

The drop clock changed from red to green as Combo yelling, "Go, go, go."

And you do go. You go down hard, like a Commando should. You open the chute, you check the canopy, you make space. Everything is going well.

And then all Hell breaks loose.

You do not bother with your chute when in a live fire zone; you fire, so you are up and moving as soon as you are unclipped. Agent Hand is patched through into your radio with the announcement that she is under heavy fire from the building they are are targeting. On the other damn side. it turns out they are expecting you as well, because at that moment, a three-man squad of heavily armoured men come thundering up from the level below. The rest of your squad landed too far away to provide assistance.

But you have a 9mm handgun. So, there.

The first bullet you fire slams into the first man's gut, the second in his chest, and the third blows out the back of his skull, his helmet crumbling like tin foil. You take cover as a spray of bullets, but no sooner than you are down, you are seemingly up again, in favour of putting down the one with the sniper rifle on his back. You don't want the long-range precision gunner of the group to stick around, you see. You drop back to one knee behind the wall. The hammer of live rounds against the side of the building is deafening.

Now.

You stand up just in time for the second man to decide he's not going to let you snipe him. He's already charging across the twenty meter gap between you, hurdles across the small wall and tries to put a bayonet through your guts... but that's eons too slow. You put five rounds into his belly as he leaps, three of which punch through his body armour, and his spine resulting in a very heavy corpse landing on top of you. For reference, a fully armored male weighs well over two hundred pounds. So that's two hunded pounds of dead person lying on top of you as you struggle to elbow this not-insignificant weight off the top of you before the last persopn realizes you're stuck and comes to shoot your head off while you're pinned.

"Animal!" Oh, the man has swapped to English for you. How he guessed you were American is beyond you. Maybe all parachuting Commandos are seemingly American. You redouble your efforts kicking the corpse of his buddy off, your 9mm still at the ready, one handed against your shoulder as you shove and lever the giant dead person off your right leg. "I will flay you from your battle skin, beast! I will pull your guts out through your throat!"

That seems ambitious.

You finish prying your way out from under the soldier and take a moment to grab the bayonet he left on the ground. It takes you about a second to get the weight of it, gauge it... then you stand up again and hurl that fucking thing at the chatty third soldier, prongs-first just as he opens fire on you. The round glances off your chest armor and knocks you back a step out of your follow-through. Sends your goddamn 9mm spinning from your hands.

The good ― the man has a fucking blade jerking out through the meat of his right shoulder.

The bad ― he's not dead and point of fact he's charging you now, yanking the blade out of his own shoulder and barreling at you, bellowing psychotically and you don't have your primary weapon now. Your first fire fight is going about as good as your first drop.

Fortunately for you, at that very moment, this area of the city is bombed heavily in a combined barrage, and the building shakes so hard beneath you that the floor crumbles beneath him. He's gone, and you are on the floor, staring at a massive, great dark hole.

You smile.

You do not take the moment to survey the carnage, however. You are too busy retrieving your pistol and seeing if the soldiers had anything useable. The bayonet is still usable, there's kind of a data-pad with a map, and a StG 44.

Then you realize that the StG 44 was developed by Nazi Germany and you pause.

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **PRESENT DAY**

Will felt pretty good as he fell asleep. The whole day hadn't gone much to plan, really, what with the increasing emphisis on combat training and little academic work, but he was clever and fit and was still in the program when a good fifty of them had since dropped out. He had loads of good friends, and he was nuzzling a pillow in a warm bed.

Unfortunately, William wasn't the only person in SHIELD who'd noticed the comfortable little rut he'd drifted into.

"Get up, you scum-sucking, pinko-loving, marigold-sniffing son of a bag of horseshit,'" said a deep voice as he was suddenly attacked and pulled out his bed from one side.

Will, thanks to plenty of good food and hard exercise, was muscular, and at seventy-three kilos he weighed as much as many grown men. But that didn't stop a colossal set of arms from plucking him off the mattress and driving him down against the springs with such force that two wooden bed slats cracked beneath him.

"Jesus," Will groaned, as a hand pressed down on his forehead.

"You fairycake-eating, panda-shagging grease ball. I'm gonna pee in a bucket and tip it on your Weetabix."

Another voice came from behind. It was friendly but its owner was clearly getting a rise out of seeing Will suffer. "Keep calm, Cadet Yoshita ― as of this moment, you are under Assignment 2-A. This is an Assignment."

It's hard to make sense of anything when an enormous psycho is pitching you around like a squeaky toy in the mouth of a pit bull, but after a second Will realised the second voice was Agent DeMent.

"I see you've met my good pal, Mike Yamada,' DeMent said. "Although he prefers it if you ditch the first name."

"If there is no Agent nor Commando stuck before that title I'll rip off your testicles and feed them to your parents," Yamada explained.

Will had never met Yamada, but he had heard a lot about him. The man was a psycho, and led the best recruits in combat training. He was so good, like a lot of Hoplite Commandos, he was ordered to smack civilians rather than punch them because they could kill with just one swing.

"Sir," Will spluttered.

He could only manage one word but it meant a lot. It meant: _Hello sir I'm surprised to see you_ , it meant: Sir, _I thought we were good could you please tell me what the hell is going on?_ and above all else it meant: Sir, _I think this nut job Yamada is going to kill me and I wonder if you'd be kind enough to stop him_.

But before Will could get any more specific, Yamada had thrown a bag over his head, then flipped him around, pressed a colossal knee against his back and ripped a set of handcuffs from his belt. Will continued to struggle by tucking one of his wrists under his body.

"Gimme that hand, Marigold, or I'll rip your shoulder out of its socket and stick my boot so far up your arse that you'll taste black polish in the back of your throat."

Will realised that heroism was going to get him nowhere and he let out a huge groan, before allowing Yamada to lock on the cuffs and drag him to his feet.

"Grey PT gear and trainers, DeMent." Yamada called over his shoulder, curtly.

Will stood by, blind and shaking, while he heard DeMent trashing around in his locker. It sounded far too silent. Where was the rest of his Squad?

Then he remembers everyone going straight to bed after dinner, complaining of drowsiness and it hits him.

Fucking SHIELD.

"You'll see the rest of your squad soon, kiddo." DeMent explained gently. "Agent Kirkland has devised a little exercise for all you first years."

"Enough chit-chat, you lollypop-sucking flower-arranger," Yamada shouted as he shoved a blind Will in the back. "Let's get you out to the wilderness where no one can hear you scream."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **2012**

" _―are taking heavy fire!"_ says the man on the radio _. "I repeat! We are taking heavy fire and require assistance_."

You are down the road, coming in. You say, "Ordinance inbound."

" _Say again? This is a non-secure channel._ "

"Ordinance. In. Bound."

" _Negative. Ordinance drop-pod was knocked off course_."

Then what the hell is that coming for them? You frown. It looks like ordinance.

"Hold position."

" _What? We need back up_ ―" There's an explosion. " _Fuck! Fuck, Jesus Christ, we're dying! They have a fuc―! We are not equipped for mobile artillery! I repeat! We are not equipped. Send another drop pod or―!_ "

There is something that sounds like a whirr, and then, without warning, something bright and white slams into the building from above and the whole thing, suddenly, explodes.

That wasn't ordiance.

" _JESUS CHRIST―_ " Someone screams over the radio. Your HUD says it's the Reaper, but you don't really notice that.

Because the building you were a mere few thousand metres away from has just been blown off the fucking map for good.

And half of your team was in there.

" _―Quickly now, Response Team Sierra, Commando Squadron 5 of AMC November-11 Battalion, check in! That's an order!_ "

You pant out, hard, as you take cover.

" _Response Team Sierra, Commando Squadron 5 of AMC November-11 Battalion, check in!_ "

 _"Reading you Five 11 Actual. Commando Knockout-2, Check._ "

A blast of static.

" _Commando Combo-3, Check._ "

You lean around the wall, rifle in hand, and breathe out hard again. The air is thick with dust, but the scene beyond you burns a bright, fierce orange. You can feel the heat through your armour.

" _Commando Grumble-4, Check._ "

You grit your teeth. " _Commando Evade-5, Check._ "

" _Fireteam Alpha, Full House. Roger So Far. Fireteam Bravo, do you copy?_ "

Static.

" _Fireteam Bravo, do you copy? Over._ "

A long, deadly period of silence.

You all know.

" _That's a negative, 11 Actual. They're gone._ "

They're gone.

". _.. Shit_."

" _They were inside when the..._ "

" _Holy fuck_."

And because Orders are Orders and they have to be obeyed.

" _... Fireteam Alpha, stand by. Hold your positions. We're getting ourselves out of here_."

 **[STALINGRAD]**

 **PRESENT DAY**

Mouth pressed into a thin line, Vade tilts her head as Mordechai Azoulayn stares in disbelief.

Without saying anything, sat with her elbows pressed up against her knees on a camping chair, Vade jerks her chin at the tablet over to one side.

Mordechai grabs the tablet, and reads.

And when he is finished, he turns and throws it against the wall.

"It was HYDRA."

"Yessir."

He breathes in sharply and runs his hands across his face.

"I thought you were dead, Commando." Mordechai says quietly after he's turned around again.

Vade snorts. "Well that was your mistake, wasn't it, sir."

"You?"

Vade _glares_.

"Where is your principle?"

"Hidden until further notice."

Azoulayn mirrors her look. "Am I that dangerous?"

"Right now, I don't know who to fucking trust."

"You seem to have trusted my cadets quite well."

Vade sighs, rubs her brow and claps her hands together in front of her face. "They're good kids." She says, eventually, weakly.

"And we're at war."

"Yessir."

"And nobody knows about it aside from us."

"Yessir."

Mordechai sits down in the spare camping chair. It brings them back. Two Commandos sat in a dark space, surrounded on all sides by threats.

"They lied," Mordechai growls. "They knew it was HYDRA and they just..."

"Something tells me the people we were reporting to _were_ HYDRA." Vade replied quietly. "They could have easily just swept it under the rug. We were outnumbered and outmanned from the start, playing six steps behind in the dark. I mean think about it. They sent a ground team in, with no ordinance, and then obliterated the area from space. It was only luck that... that Buckaroo managed to get anything out. If it wasn't for him there wouldn't be any evidence. We never stood a fucking chance."

"And my cadets?"

"God fucking knows, sir. God fucking knows."


	13. GUESS WHO'S BAAAAACK!

IM BAAAACK MOTHERDUCKERS!

And it's been.. hooly hell far too long.

So, for those who don't know, I've recently finished everything educational - between finding a new place, a new job and new everything, combined with regular hospital visits, I've had no time at all. Now I do. And I'm finishing this damn story.

With a few changes.

First of all, decisions have been made as to wherever or not I can adequately finish this and three other SYOCs. Simply put, I can't. Plus, the newly released episodes of Agents of SHIELD has me wanting to change directions out of a need to respect canon. I WILL be continuing STALINGRAD - there are no two ways about it, but from now, NOVEMBER-11 and BANDOGGE DAY have been effectively... suspended. Not canceled forever, I don't think, but they need to be put into storage.

While this is unfortunate, plans ARE being made. Plans involving New SHIELD and SYOCs and, well, Inhuman strike forces.

The next Chapter of STALINGRAD will be uploaded on Monday.

Until then, keep it cool.

Alfanide, Over and Out (though not indefinitely, this time!)


End file.
